


i believe him when he tells of loving me

by bitterlee



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 80s, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying Harry Styles, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Mentions of Homophobic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sharing a Bed, Zayn is mentioned, lovers to strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterlee/pseuds/bitterlee
Summary: louis doesn't remember harry. harry takes him home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to artemis for their beta and for helping me out of my slump, thank you to amy for my favorite series of google doc comments ever, and thank you to batool for refusing to read this because you had finals. 
> 
> please do not translate or podfic my work without permission. please not not repost my work under any circumstances. 
> 
> this fic deals with traumatic amnesia sustained during an act of homophobic violence. the act itself is a prevalent theme throughout. this fic is about gay people living during the height of the AIDS crisis. neither harry nor louis have or will contract AIDS, but a supporting does. there is no character death, implied or otherwise. there is no smut. jay is in this. 
> 
> thank you for reading. love you. x

 

>              "I don't care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here." 
> 
> —  **Anne Sexton** , from a letter to W.D. Snodgrass 

 

* * *

 

 

**OCTOBER, 1985**  
**TULSA, OKLAHOMA, USA**

 

Harry rubbed the sweat out of his eyes and turned the dial on the radio all the way to the right. A folk song came through heavy waves of static, and he sighed before giving the dial a solid turn to the left. Cyndi Lauper. Another hard crank to the right, and a slight twist back to the left. This time it was the afternoon news, talking about donating blood and protests and Reagan and death, and Harry slammed the knob with the heel of his hand, plunging the car into a tense silence. He brought his hand back to the wheel and gripped it fiercely, watching his knuckles turn white and trying to ignore Louis’ gaze as it burned into the side of his head.

In the passenger seat, Louis was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. There was sweat beaded at his temples and a flush high in his cheeks, and Harry couldn’t look at him. Louis waited a long moment before speaking, his voice gentle in the quiet of the car. “I thought you loved folk music.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Harry muttered evasively, without turning to look at Louis.

“Ah,” Louis accepted this easily. “I was worried I’d forgotten about you having some revelation and realizing that slow and twangy shit really is as boring as I’ve been telling you it is.”

Harry huffed out a laugh and glanced over at Louis. “No, I still like that boring, twangy shit.”

“Pity,” Louis commented. “Just take me back to the hospital and have them put me back into a coma. Don’t wake me up until you come to your senses.”

The morbid humor rattled Harry a little, shaking a well hidden fear loose in him, but he smiled for Louis’ sake. It was just a joke. It was good that Louis was making jokes again, but Harry was really looking forward to the days when Louis was able to crack wise about something that wasn’t memory loss or hospitals or details about Harry he didn’t remember. Those were still sensitive subjects to Harry, and it pained him to laugh about them.

“We can’t afford another coma,” Harry told him. “We’ll just get you home and you can take a really long nap, instead. But when you wake up I will still like folk music.”

“Hardly seems worth it, then,” Louis said, and with that, the car was quiet again.

They had been in this car for a solid day, trading off sleeping in the backseat and stopping every hundred or so miles to stretch their stiff legs and take in some scenery. Harry’s sure he’s drunk out of every rest stop water fountain located on the interstate between New York and Oklahoma, and the leaden weight in his knees from sitting for long periods of time feels like it’s at risk of becoming permanent.

The last hundred miles had been torture, with the oppressive midwestern heat finally catching up to them, and when Louis had rolled down his window in an attempt to dry the sheen of sweat that covered his face and arms, he had been greeted with a wave of hot, acrid air, dense and unforgiving. Things had only gotten worse from there, as Oklahoma was undeniably one of the worst places Harry had ever been, and he was including that rest stop bathroom in Connecticut, Jeff’s Pizza in Jersey, and economics class.

Harry had been gritting his teeth since the border, clenching his jaw until a migraine pounded behind his eyes as he mentally repeated a mantra of _it’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s for the best_. It hadn’t worked yet; they were just shy of 100 miles away from their destination, and Harry still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t the worst decision he had ever made in his life.

Louis, for his part, sat quietly in the passenger seat with dark circles under his eyes and his skin sticky with sweat. He had been quiet the whole trip, which in itself was unusual for Louis, but the gray pallor of his skin and the fact Harry knew Louis’ ribs were visible underneath his threadbare t-shirt made his subdued demeanor all the more worrying. Their destination, Louis’ childhood home in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was compounding the stress of their situation, and guilt tugged at Harry’s conscience, but he pushed it aside. _It’s for the best._

Harry turned the radio back on, unable to continue listening to his own voice echo in his head any longer, and after some idle turning of the knob, settled on the local NPR station. Louis perked up when they announced the Tulsa orchestra would be performing an assortment of works by John Williams, and Harry relaxed into his seat when Louis reached over to turn up the radio. He held back his comments about the Star Wars score, and let himself watch Louis out of the corner of his eye, smiling as Louis turned his ear towards the speaker and drummed his fingers on his folded knees.

It tightened something in Harry’s chest to see this side of Louis, one that had been absent since the incident, since Louis woke up in a hospital with no memory of ever obtaining a Master’s in Music Education, and no idea why he was wearing a band on his ring finger. His diploma was hanging on the wall of their apartment in New York, and his band, along with Harry’s, hung around Harry’s neck on the same chain that bore his tarnished crucifix. Sometimes it felt like the rings were searing a brand into Harry’s skin.

The gentle rumble of the radio announcer’s voice brought Harry out of his mind and back into the car as he heard, _“Actor Rock Hudson has died of AIDS,”_ and Harry heard the breath catch in Louis’ throat as they both reached for the radio. Louis got there first, but he yanked his hand away when his fingers brushed Harry’s. Harry turned off the radio.

After a moment, Louis said, “I didn’t even know he was sick.”

“Yeah,” something like despair settled in Harry’s stomach, and he wracked his brain for a change of subject. “Get the map and see how much farther?”

Without question, Louis reached into the glove box and unfolded their enormous road map, the route clearly drawn in purple marker and notable landmarks indicated with gold foil stickers shaped like stars. Niall had planned the trip in one of his bids to ease some of the burden on Harry during their last few weeks in New York, and Harry had laughed when he saw the sticky note next to Tulsa that had a small drawing of Louis’ entire family on it. The drawing included a lanky, knock kneed rendition of Harry, and at the time, Harry had been delighted by it.

Louis traced the purple line with his finger, looked up and squinted at a passing highway marker, then looked back down to find their approximate location.

“About thirty miles,” he said. He smoothed out the creased sticky note, then re-folded the map and returned it to the glove box, which he closed firmly. Not quite a slam, but firmly enough it pulled Harry’s focus.

“You alright?” he queried gently.

“Fine,” Louis said shortly. “We’re just getting awfully close.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but in the same moment, Louis reached up to run a hand through his hair. He stilled, skin paling as he seemed to remember his body, and he gently grazed his palm along the close crop of his hair. Louis’ fingers idled minutely on the thick, jagged scar that ran along his hairline at the nape of his neck and up behind his left ear. He cleared his throat, once, twice, and then brought his shaking hand down to rest in his lap. For a long, awful moment, neither of them spoke.

Two months ago, Louis had possessed a mess of golden-brown hair, badly in need of a trim. He remembers that about himself, at least, probably more muscle memory than anything. Louis had never before had such a short hairstyle, and he had certainly never had it buzzed down to his skin, as it was near his scar. Harry used to tease Louis about needing a trim, and Louis used to tell him to fuck off. He’d been unconscious when they’d shaved his head at the hospital, but Harry had cried enough for the both of them.

“Louis,” Harry began softly.

“Don’t,” Louis snapped.

Harry flinched at the sharpness of his voice, unused to having such vitriol directed at him. Louis had always softened himself for Harry, even when he was angry or frustrated, he had never snapped or been cruel, but that was different now. Everything was different.

Louis either didn’t notice him flinch, or didn’t feel it warranted a comment. Somehow that hurt more than his initial sharp tone, but Harry resigned himself to it. He swallowed his encouragement and focused his eyes on the highway, watching as it disappeared beneath the hood of the car.

The next thirty miles seemed like a hundred, and when they finally pulled into the tree-lined lane that served as the private drive up to Louis’ home, Harry almost wept with relief. It had been ages since Louis had seen his family, but Harry had never even met them, and to be getting the dreaded first meeting out of the way was going to be such a weight off Harry’s shoulders that he felt like crying.

In stark contrast to Harry’s growing relief, Louis grew visibly tense the closer they came to the house, and when it finally came into view and the car stopped in the driveway, he was sitting rigid in his seat, his knuckles white where he gripped the handle on the door. His entire family was there, waiting on the front porch, eight of them standing in a line, and Harry felt his heart stutter in his chest as he turned the key in the ignition and pushed open the door of the car.

He stood slowly, knees twinging sorely in protest, and sent a wave towards the person who could be no one else but Louis’ mother, Johannah. _Jay_ , he reminded himself. She smiled back at him, but the tension in the car had been palpable, and Harry knew Louis’ mother could sense the anxiety on them as Louis followed suit and climbed out of the car. Louis faltered, perhaps at the sight of his entire family waiting for him, or the sight of his childhood home, or the weight of the last few weeks finally catching up to him, but Jay was there when his knees buckled, holding him and murmuring into his ear.

Harry turned away when Louis began to cry. Louis’ stepfather, Dan, was by Harry’s side, and Harry shook his hand and muttered his introductions before leading him around to the trunk of the car. Together they pulled out their suitcases, and Jay took Louis inside. Most of the siblings followed, the odd teenage girl hanging back in the yard to watch as Harry slammed the trunk shut and shouldered his duffel bag.

“That it?” Dan asked, gesturing down at the paltry assortment of baggage, and Harry nodded. Dan shrugged and called to one of the girls, “Lottie, come get this.”

The tallest girl stepped forward, and Harry watched her as she battled with indecision, pushing her long hair behind her ear and eyeing Harry warily.

“He’s not going to bite you, Lottie,” Dan said firmly. “Come get your brother’s bag.”

That spurred her into action, and she strode towards them. Harry stepped aside to let her by, and she didn’t spare him another glance as she hefted Louis’ suitcase and took it into the house, the remaining Tomlinson children following her in and letting the screen door shut with a slam that made Harry jump.

“Easy there,” Dan commented, and Harry’s cheek burned with embarrassment. “None of that,” Dan said, using the same immovable tone he had with Lottie moments before, “You two have got nothing to worry about here.”

Harry looked at Dan, hands shaking as he leveled Dan with what he hoped was a blank expression and said flatly, “Neither of us have anything contagious.”

Dan looked shocked for a moment, his eyes wide and jaw slack, and when he finally spoke all he seemed able to say was, “Harry.”

There was so much behind the way he said it that Harry immediately felt guilty for his blunt tone. “Sorry. Just felt that needed to be said.”

“It’s alright,” Dan said quickly, and Harry could see him scrambling for a response. “You have nothing to worry about in my home. You are safe here,” he repeated, and Harry believed him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice sticking in his throat as the threat of tears burned in his eyes.

“Come inside whenever you’re ready,” Dan told him. “Someone will show you to your room.”

Harry nodded, and Dan went inside, carrying a suitcase in each hand, and when the screen door closed behind him, it was with a soft thump that Harry barely heard. The thoughtfulness of that gesture coupled with the strangeness of his reception overwhelmed him, and his legs wobbled before folding underneath him. He was weary with exhaustion and heart sickness, and Harry was not surprised to find himself sitting in Louis’ front yard, trying very hard not to cry. He bit down hard on his lip to stop it trembling, and cursed under his breath as a tear rolled down his cheek.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to stop himself from crying, and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. The grass was soft under his legs, poking through the well worn material of his jeans and tickling his ankles through his socks. Harry composed himself for another moment, and wiped furiously at the tears on his cheeks before he opened his eyes and took in the full scope of his new home.

The house was gorgeous, a traditional rustic farmhouse, freshly painted an eggshell blue color, with a wraparound porch and shuttered windows. Well maintained flower beds filled the yard, and neatly trimmed bushes lined the stone walk leading up the front door. The side door that Louis’ family had disappeared into was nestled between two full length pane windows, and through them, Harry could see members of the family milling around.

It was peaceful, idyllically so, as Harry assumed only the country could be, with no traffic sounds or other people milling around, only the occasional moo from a cow or call from a cicada. A dry, warm breeze filtered through his hair and pulled at his shirt, drying the sweat in the small of his back and pulling his damp curls off of his neck. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, tremulously, and willed it to be peaceful inside his head for just a moment.

When he opened his eyes again there were two small faces pressed against the glass of the back windows, no doubt leaving greasy smudges in the shapes of noses, and Harry smiled at the identical unruly heads of hair belonging to the children watching him with unbridled curiosity. A shadowy figure appeared behind them, shooing them away, and Harry saw their faces light up with laughter as they scurried away from the window. He was sure he looked rather strange, sitting cross legged in the front lawn, and the desire to impress Louis’ family drove him to push himself to his feet and re-shoulder his duffel. With one more deep breath, he crossed the lawn and stepped up onto the porch.

The screen door opened for him, and Jay was there with a warm smile on her face. “Hello, Harry.”

“Hi,” he said thickly. “How is he?”

Jay’s expression was impossibly gentle when she murmured, “He’s resting.”

She pulled the screen door closed behind him, holding it with her hand so that it didn’t slam, and Harry knew she’d talked to Dan. News traveled quickly in this family, apparently, and Harry found himself wondering why he had been welcomed into the fold so easily, why both of Louis’ parents were going out of their way to be gentle with him, as if he were bubble wrapped and marked as fragile.

“We’ve put you in the guest room,” Jay said, searching his face for something, and when Harry nodded and smiled tightly, she returned it, satisfied. “You have your own bathroom, and you’re more than welcome to take a nap before dinner. The drive must have been difficult.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, his voice breaking slightly. “Would you-”

“Of course,” Jay understood immediately, and shook herself into action. “Follow me.”

Harry dutifully did so. As he followed her to his room, he quickly took in the house. It was warm and homey, well decorated, but cluttered with children’s toys and schoolbooks, the odd pair of shoes or kickball taking up space on the floor. Harry loved it immediately.

The hardwood floors were clean and polished, catching the late afternoon sunlight, and the entire place smelled of lavender and soap and something hearty that Harry assumed was the aforementioned dinner.

“You have a lovely home,” he said, briefly taking in a few family photos, black and white shots of a boy that could only be Louis with a soccer ball, and more recent sepia toned photos of the younger siblings, all with wide smiles and other hobby related accoutrement.

“Thank you,” Jay said with a smile when she stopped at the door to the guest room. She opened it and stepped aside. “If you need anything, there is always a Tomlinson nearby, and if you find one who can’t help you, they always know where I am. I can definitely help you.”

Harry laughed, a small, airy chuckle, but Jay seemed pleased to hear it. “I appreciate your hospitality,” Harry said.

“Of course,” Jay waved her hand dismissively, and Harry moved to step into his room. She hesitated for a second before she reached out to touch his arm, and the warm pressure of her hand surprised Harry, stopping him in his tracks.

“He doesn’t know,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Harry shook his head. “He doesn’t.”

Jay’s gaze dropped to Harry’s necklace, his unbuttoned shirt putting it on display, and her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “You gave him a ring?”

Harry shook his head again.

At Jay’s deepening confusion, he whispered, “He gave me one.”

“Oh, darling,” Jay murmured, and Harry couldn’t hold it together after that. The genuine affection in her tone was like a blow to the chest, and he crumpled, dropping his duffel bag to the floor and his forehead to Jay’s shoulder. Her arms came up to hold him, just as she’d held Louis by the car, and she stroked his shoulders as he cried himself out into the fabric of her sweatshirt. He knew he should feel bad, ashamed even, crying on the shoulder of a woman he’d only just met, but she didn’t push him away, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty for being unable to shoulder the stress any longer.

He cried until he felt empty, his eyes sticking shut and his nose stopped up, and he pulled away slowly, muttering apologies and wiping away tear tracks with the backs of his hands.

“No need to be sorry,” Jay assured him, patting his arm gently. “You go wash your face and put your things away. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes, and the twins are very anxious to meet you.”

Harry nodded numbly, and once more picked up his bag. He shuffled into his room and with a final appreciative nod to Jay, closed the door behind himself. His room was small but comfortable, with two large windows occupying one wall, and a large painting of a barnyard taking up another. A braided rag rug covered the wood floor beneath his feet, and the bathroom door to his left stood open, showing a matching one on the tile in front of the shower. The bedspread was lilac, the walls were white, and a rocking chair stood in the corner next to a dresser and a cabinet.

Running footsteps and children’s voices were audible from the rest of the house, and occasionally a door would slam or a girl would shout for her mother, and Jay’s even voice would call out a prompt response. It was a friendly sounding atmosphere, and Harry found that just being in the same space as Louis’ family was helping him to understand so many things about the way Louis was. That train of thought was making him feel like crying again, so he quickly redirected himself and began humming scales under his breath to keep his mind busy.

He unpacked quickly, hanging his few shirts in the small closet and putting his jeans and socks into dresser drawers. Further inspection revealed that the cabinet housed an old stereo system and a small collection of tapes. Harry smiled as he scanned the tape spines, seeing several familiar names and a few homemade tapes with titles like _PROM ‘82,_ _PICNIC MUSIC_ , and much to Harry’s delight, _REALLY SAD STUFF_ and _KISSING MUSIC_.

Harry went into the bathroom and put his few toiletries away. He paused a moment and surveyed himself in the mirror, recoiling slightly at his puffy eyes, downturned mouth, and red cheeks. He looked about as worn out as he felt. Harry splashed some water on his face and ran his damp fingers through his limp, frizzy curls, but he couldn’t bring himself to make any effort beyond that.

A quick knock at the bedroom door drew his attention away from the mirror and he called, “Yes?”

“Dinner!” called a cheerful voice.  
“Be right out,” Harry replied, and smiled to himself as he heard quick footsteps receding down the hall.

He paused a moment to steel himself before leaving his bedroom and heading down the hallway towards the main part of the house. The hubbub of conversation crested when he reached the kitchen, as the entire family was already there, squabbling over seating arrangements and passing out napkins as Dan tried to keep the peace and Jay served rice, expertly navigating the mass of her family. Louis was there, sitting at the head of the table, looking like he had just woken up from a nap, but he was smiling.

Dan took notice of Harry waiting in the doorway and ushered him over with a wave of his hand. There was only one empty chair left at the table, immediately to Dan’s left, on the opposite end of the table from Louis, and Harry settled himself into it. One of Louis’ sisters was eyeing him curiously, but the rest of the family acted as though he wasn’t there, and Harry wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Jay finished serving the meal, some sort of meat in sauce on top of rice with plenty of vegetables that were optional for anyone at the table over eighteen. Harry opted for the vegetables, serving himself a comically large portion of carrots, and he blushed at the laughter this earned him from Dan. When everyone was settled with full plates and all the children had napkins in their laps, the noise hushed, only the occasional scrape of a fork or murmured compliment about the food to be heard.

Louis kept his gaze trained firmly on his plate, and everyone at the table seemed uncomfortably aware of his withdrawn manner. It wasn’t until Harry had just started on his second serving of rice that one of the sisters spoke.

“So is anyone going to introduce us, or…?”

Harry inhaled sharply, sucking rice into his throat and choking unattractively. Dan thumped him squarely between the shoulders, laughing at Harry’s misfortune.

“Sorry,” Harry rasped, taking a quick sip of his water and coughing a few more times to ensure there were no grains of rice lodged in his lung. “Hi, I’m Harry.”

The sister who had asked rolled her eyes. “I’m Phoebe.”

“Daisy.”

“Felicité.”

“Lottie.”

“The little ones are Ernest and Doris,” Jay supplied.

Harry greeted each with a nod, noting their assorted ages, Lottie in her early twenties and Daisy and Phoebe at least sixteen. He smiled at the twins, which brought a scoff from Lottie.

“Figures he would smile at the babies,” she said.

Felicité laughed at that, and Harry couldn’t help feeling there was something he was missing out on, but he didn’t have time to ask, because Ernest was asking loudly, “Why are you here, Harry?”

He blanched, speechless. Jay gently chided Ernest for his manners, but the question hung in the air, and the fact every eye at the table was now on him, it begged to be answered.

“I’m Louis’ friend,” Harry said.

Something dawned on Lottie’s face then, and she gave Harry a sad, sympathetic look.

“He never brought a friend home before,” Ernest continued, smacking his fork up and down on his rice. “I have more friends than him.”

“I’m sure you do,” Harry replied with a laugh, hoping that would be enough to drop the subject.

“Why are you here?” Daisy asked.

“Daisy,” Jay reprimanded.

“It’s a fair question,” Daisy protested. “There’s a strange man in my house and my brother can’t remember the last six years of his life, and I want to know why.”

“That’s enough,” Dan said. Daisy turned a shocked look to her father, obviously readying herself to say something else, but Harry wasn’t about to be responsible for family conflict.

“No, she’s right,” he heard himself saying. “I don’t mind. I’m here because Louis couldn’t come back by himself. Somebody had to keep him company.”

Louis pushed his rice around on his plate. He didn’t look up.

“Why?” Doris asked, her mouth full of carrots.

“Because he got hurt,” Harry watched Jay out of the corner of his eye, gauging her reaction, but she continued to cut Doris’ carrots and made no move to silence Harry.

“How?” Doris opened her mouth for more carrots. Jay gave them to her.

“That’s not a good story for dinnertime,” Harry said carefully.

“Were you there when he got hurt?” Daisy’s tone was sharp now, and she seemed suspicious. Harry didn't blame her.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“But you didn’t get hurt,” she said flatly.

Dan was watching this unfold, his gaze volleying back and forth between Daisy and Harry, clearly waiting for Harry to indicate his discomfort so that the whole thing could come to a stop, but Harry knew he owed this entire family an explanation. Louis’ rice continued to migrate towards the edge of his plate.

“I did, actually,” Harry folded his hands together in his lap and clenched them tightly as if he could will them to stop shaking. He wasn’t ready for that line of questioning, and he couldn’t bear the way Lottie’s head whipped up from her plate and Dan opened his mouth to speak, so he plowed on. “I was also there when the doctors fixed Louis up. So another reason I came with him was because they told me all about how to help him get better.”

“You’re a good friend,” Ernest said in that decidedly assured way only small children possessed, and Harry laughed quietly.

“Thank you, Ernest.”

The sound of Louis’ fork hitting the table brought the moment to an end, and the harsh scraping of his chair against the floor grated against Harry’s ears.

“That was really good, mom,” Louis said of his uneaten dinner. “I’m going to call it a night. Long drive and all that. Goodnight, all.”

There were a few murmured responses, but Louis didn’t hang around to hear them. The slam of his bedroom door could be heard from where they all sat, and Harry hated that it made him jump. Everyone was staring at him, the younger girls in confusion, Dan and Lottie in sympathy, and Jay with a profound sort of sadness that Harry felt reflected in his own expression. He couldn’t meet all of their eyes at once.

After another moment of terrible silence, Jay asked, “When do you start your new job, Harry?”

Harry found himself struggling to remember, but eventually he managed, “Monday.”

“Tell us about it,” Jay prompted gently, and Harry swallowed the lump of gratitude in his throat as the family took this as a cue to continue on as though nothing had happened.

“I’m the director of music and youth programming at the Methodist church in Tulsa,” he explained briefly, suddenly regretting his optimistic serving of carrots.

“There’s more than one Methodist church in Tulsa,” Dan teased with a laugh. “Music, though?”

“Yeah, Louis and I both have a Master’s in it,” Harry said without thinking. “His is in education, mine is in performance.”

“It’s not doing him much good though, is it?” Daisy said suddenly.

Harry blinked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“He can’t remember it,” she said, her tone fraught with an emotion Harry couldn’t place. “He’s got a Master’s degree and he can’t remember it. It’s useless. It’s just a piece of paper.”  
“Daisy,” Dan warned, but she was already rising from the table, throwing her napkin down onto her plate and saying, “I wish you’d never come here.”

“Daisy!” Jay said sharply.

“I’m already going to my room, mom, don’t bother,” and with that, she was gone.

Moments later, her bedroom door slammed, but Harry was ready for it this time. He didn’t flinch. Everyone sat in stunned, horrified silence for a long moment. Phoebe lasted only another second before she quietly excused herself and followed her sister, without sparing Harry a glance.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jay reassured him immediately. “Absolutely nothing. It’s us who should be apologizing for her manners.”

“She’s not wrong,” Harry murmured. “He doesn’t remember getting either of his degrees.”  

“He can always go back to school,” Jay said sensibly.

“Is there something else he forgot?” Lottie asked, her tone gentle, yet probing. “There’s a reason you’re here, Harry. Our mom is a nurse. Nobody drives all the way across the country under the pretense of showing a damn nurse how to change a bandage without having an ulterior motive.”

Harry met Lottie’s eyes across the table. He didn’t see anger in them, only sadness, and maybe, he hoped, understanding.

At long last, Harry took a deep breath and said, “He forgot me.”

Lottie’s fork hit her plate with a clank and she pushed her chair away from the table. Harry braced himself for another door slam, but when Lottie rose, instead of storming out of the room, she came around the table to where Harry sat and leaned down to wrap him in a hug. He couldn’t do anything but sit, stunned into absolute silence.

Seconds later there was another chair scraping, and another pair of arms wrapped around him, and the hair tickling his neck told him it was Felicité holding him. They stood there for a long time, the pair of them, arms tangled around Harry, and he could barely breathe. It was a long while before Harry noticed someone was crying, and it was another minute before he realized it was him.

When they pulled away from him, Lottie gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead and settled herself into the chair next to him. Dan and the young twins had vanished, and Jay seemed rooted to her chair, tears glimmering in her eyes. Felicité stood behind Harry’s chair, her hands on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lottie said, and all Harry could do was nod.

They finished their dinner like that, Lottie and Felicité and Jay and Harry, eating their cold carrots and trying not to cry again. For the most part, they were successful.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry came home from his first day of work with a pounding headache, a crick in his neck, and a friendly suggestion from his boss that he cut his hair. He was greeted at the door by a shrieking Ernest and a detachedly courteous Phoebe, and he got himself to his room as quickly as possible. Once there, he dropped his bag to the floor, toed off his shoes, and flopped gracelessly onto the bed. It had been a long few days. 

Settling into a new place was always difficult, Harry knew this from experience, but he also knew he’d had an easy time of it so far. Half of the Tomlinson-Deakin family was warm and receptive, including him in family movie nights and asking for his input on what should be had for dinner. Dan took him along when he and the kids went bowling, Jay baked cranberry walnut cookies because Harry mentioned he liked them, and Lottie asked for help braiding her hair before she left for school on Friday, even though she and Harry both knew she didn’t need it. 

Harry was finding himself constantly surprised by their persistence in making Harry feel like he belonged, from including him in group activities to accommodating his idiosyncrasies. He had been expecting awkwardness and unfamiliarity, and while there was still some tension between himself and the older twins, it had been easy to build a relationship with Louis’ parents, and he felt welcomed. 

They had readily accepted his sexuality, his past with Louis and his wish for silence on the matter, his oddly patterned shirts and his tendency to get overwhelmed by the surplus of young people always making noise and needing attention. Harry had never once felt like a burden. Daisy and Phoebe were still wary of him, Daisy stonily silent and Phoebe politely aloof, but Jay seemed sure all the girls needed was time, and Harry could give them that. 

Louis staunchly ignored him, and Harry was perfectly alright with giving him his space. It was understandable, given everything he’d been through. The tense silence at family dinner was easier to gloss over now that it had been a few days, but it was awkward to say the least, and Harry couldn’t ease how heavily it weighed on him that he had brought this sort of conflict into their home, couldn’t help feeling it would be better if he left, and if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really know why he stayed. The answer, of course, was Louis, but Harry wasn’t letting himself go down that road. 

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Harry lifted his face from the bed and called “Come in!” 

It was Dan, holding a cup of coffee and a few pages of sheet music. “Dropped these on your way in,” he said, waving the pages while taking note of Harry’s discarded bag and haphazardly scattered shoes. 

“Mmph,” Harry said into the bedspread. 

Dan laughed at that, and set the sheet music on the dresser. “Tough first day?” 

“They want me to cut my hair,” Harry said as he pushed himself into a sitting position. At the thought of it, he ran his hand through his shoulder length curls, pushing them back from his forehead and tugging sharply as his hand caught on a few tangles at the ends. “And I had forgotten how much I hate hymns and how bad the headaches are after you spend an hour listening to a church choir sing the wrong notes.

“But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln?” Dan passed him the coffee. 

“It was fine,” Harry shrugged and took the proffered cup. “I don’t want to cut my hair, but Methodists are close cropped folks, I guess.” 

“Are you going to?” Dan settled himself on the rocking chair near the bed and fixed Harry with a studying look. 

“We aren’t really at a point in history where I can afford to be making statements like this in any place that isn’t New York. Hell, not even in New York, apparently,” Harry said bitterly, gesturing to his hair with his free hand. He took a cautious sip of his coffee and hummed happily when he noted it was black. He’d only commented offhandedly about his coffee preferences, but Dan had remembered. “It might be best if I do cut it,” Harry surmised, finally. 

Dan nodded his understanding at that and asked again, “Are you going to?” 

“No,” Harry toyed with one of his curls, wrapping it around his finger and letting it fall against his shoulder. “I’m growing it out. It’s been like this for about a year. Louis used to trim it for me. Before.” 

Harry wanted to say, “ _ He hated my long hair at first, and he was constantly nagging me to cut it off, and it was down past my ears when he finally grabbed a handful of it and pulled me towards him and said he actually loved it.”  _ but he didn’t. Instead he said, “It was really short when we met, but he insisted I would look good with long hair. Took me this long to start growing it, but,” Harry shrugged. “He was right.”

Dan snorted. “That’s not unusual.” 

Harry hummed, his response carefully non-committal, and twirled another curl around his finger. “Hopefully I can make my ponytail look Methodist enough that I don’t lose my job.” 

“Good luck,” Dan said with a wry smile. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

The door closed behind Dan, and in his absence, the weight of the day seemed to settle on Harry’s shoulders. Oklahoma was asking a lot of him, and cutting his hair felt like losing a battle, giving some sacred ground. Harry knew what his boss had been implying when he suggested Harry cut his hair, and he knew how the odd looks and offhand comments from members of the church choir were intended to make him feel. Homophobia was funny like that, in all of its subtlety, it still hurt, but no matter what sharp barb made it under his skin, Harry never felt like he deserved it. 

He hadn’t deserved it in New York, and he didn’t deserve it here, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to help this version of Louis understand the same thing. Harry knew that when Louis was 17 he was still closeted, he ran away from home, and ended up in New York. The specifics were still fuzzy, and Louis hadn’t liked to talk about it. He didn’t come out until he was 19, a year and a half after he met Harry, and roughly six months after the first cognizant memory he still had of New York.

The casual homophobia that rolled off of Louis’ tongue after he woke up had been jarring to Harry, but he took it in stride, reminding himself that this was still a scared, confused, heavily closeted Louis who didn’t remember falling in love with Harry or fucking Harry or giving Harry a goddamn _ ring. _ So exceptions were made, and after a week or so of practice, Harry was able to stop himself from flinching every time the word  _ fag  _ came out of Louis’ mouth. 

Harry had been cautioned against telling Louis about the six years he was missing, and instead was told he should allow Louis to come out organically. He’d yelled and fought about the unfairness of that, but every second and third opinion he’d asked for had been the same. Louis was gay, that’s the way he was, no blow to the head could change that, but as far as Louis was concerned, he was still a scared, closeted nineteen year old. He had to be able to grow back into himself. 

Despite all that, some naive, selfish part of Harry was waiting for Louis to fall in love with him again, and in the two months since the incident, he had convinced himself it would happen. Five years of muscle memory couldn’t just be gone. There was part of Louis that remembered Harry, maybe his skin or his hands or his mouth, or maybe Harry would get lucky and his heart would remember what his mind couldn’t. All Harry could do was wait for Louis to get to know himself again, which was what brought him here, curled up in a rocking chair in a guest bedroom in Oklahoma. 

Lottie knocked on his door, jarring him out of his reverie, and he came out of his room for dinner feeling shaky and strange. Despite that, the meal passed without incident, and Harry prided himself on successfully ignoring the strange looks Daisy was giving him from across the table. 

After dinner, with the table cleared and Phoebe and Lottie on dish duty, Harry and Dan settled into the family room to watch the news. It was unpleasant stuff, Reagan giving more speeches full of words that somehow said nothing. Harry found himself leaning forward in his seat when New York was mentioned, something about the crisis reaching a peak there, and he was so caught up in the story he didn’t notice Louis had come into the room until there was a familiar weight settling next to him on the sofa. 

“What’s going on in the world?” Louis asked nonchalantly. 

Harry was too stunned to answer him, so Dan chimed in with a brief summary of the events, and Harry felt Louis flinch when Dan mentioned AIDS. 

“Too bad, that,” Louis interrupted.

Harry bristled. “What is?”

“That they had to go and be like that and ruin things for everybody else,” Louis said, his mouth turned down in a frown. “Innocent people are getting it now.”   
“They’re all innocent people, Louis,” Harry said, not attempting to keep the sharpness out of his tone.  _ One of your best friends has it, and he’s dying, and you’re not going to be there to say goodbye to him because you don’t even remember meeting him.  _

“Alright, relax,” Louis said defensively, leaning away from Harry. “No need to go to bat for them.”

“Them?” Harry could feel himself digging the hole deeper, exacerbating the situation, and Dan’s uncomfortable fidgeting confirmed it, but he didn’t care. “I am _ them _ , Louis.” 

That shut Louis up. He stared at Harry for a long moment, struck dumb by this news. Harry noted without humor that this marked the first time anyone had been surprised to hear this about him. His mother had been confused when he told her, mostly because he’d been outing himself for so many years before consciously realizing it, that she’d already known. 

“What?” Louis settled on, his voice going up in surprise at the end, and Harry couldn’t take it.

“I’ve had a long day, I think I’m going to turn in,” Harry pushed himself off the sofa and willed his legs to stop shaking. “Goodnight, Dan. Goodnight, Louis.”

Dan grunted a farewell, but Louis only stared, his eyes wide and expression unreadable. Harry somehow made it all the way to his room before he burst into tears, unable to make himself understand why Louis had been surprised, disgusted, even, to hear that Harry was gay. 

Harry was no stranger to these attitudes. He had encountered homophobia in all forms from all sorts of people his whole entire life; he’d been hospitalized by it, his lover had lost his memory to it, but it had never, ever come from Louis before. Harry has never told him, had just assumed he’d known, and when Louis came out, Harry had muttered a quick, “Me, too,” which Louis had hardly reached to. To feel it now, horrified and unforgiving, from a man that used to love him, even cherish him, was too much. Harry couldn’t be expected to bear it. 

He sank to his knees by the bed, his hand tightly clutching the rings on his necklace, feeling the smooth curves of the metal press into his skin, and it was a long time before he could calm himself. Once he was cried out, a sick, heavy feeling of dread settled into the pit of his stomach. Louis wasn’t remembering, he wasn’t improving, and he wasn’t the same. Harry knew he couldn’t expect Louis to do six years of living and growing and maturing all in the space of two months, but in a way, that’s what he had been expecting. 

Exhausted and heartsick, and well aware the disappointment holding a vice grip around his heart was his own fault, Harry pulled himself up and dropped into bed, not even bothering to get undressed before pulling the sheets over his head. He fell asleep still holding onto their rings. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was Tuesday. It had been a week since Harry had refused to cut his hair, a week since he’d outed himself to Louis, and a week since either of them had spoken a word to each other. Jay had apologized for Louis’ callousness, and Harry had waved her off, not deeming it necessary for her to take responsibility. He and Louis were just going to have to go slowly and learn to be friends again. Or Louis was going to decide what he wanted and start his life over, and Harry was going to go back to New York by himself to an apartment with a lease that had two names on it and a closet full of clothes that didn’t belong to him. It could go either way at this point. 

His life was a routine now, which was comfortable in its familiarity, at least. He woke up, put on some boring clothes, and went to work, where he spent all day arranging music to compensate for the oversaturation of altos in the choir, attended meetings, played piano for choir rehearsal, and came home before 5:30. He took a shower, and then hid in his bedroom until someone called him for dinner. During dinner he made idle chit-chat with Jay and Dan and occasionally Lottie or Felicité, then he would clear his place, help with the dishes, and go back to his room. Listening to a tape or reading a book was optional, as was crying himself to sleep. Rinse and repeat. 

Niall had called on Sunday, asking for good news, which Harry didn’t have. Niall didn’t have any for him, either, and the call had been quick and succinct, a few mutual murmured  _ I miss you _ s and  _ Let me know if he improves _ all they really had to offer each other. It was fine, he definitely didn’t miss New York like a limb, with a permanent ache in his chest that never went away, but there was something else he missed more, and New York would always be there. 

Harry had Tuesdays off every week, so he was home now, sitting underneath a tree with a stack of books and an apple. It was mid-October, but still pleasant outdoors. Winter was vicious in Oklahoma, but autumns were mild, and Harry was taking full advantage of the balmy weather. The sun was high, and it filtered through the leaves of the tree he sat under, casting dappled patterns on his arms and legs. Occasionally a bug would make its way over his thigh, peaceably going about its business, and Harry would let it meander across the well worn denim of his designated day off jeans. 

There was something about the entire scene that set him at ease, and Harry was grateful for this little respite from the stresses of the past few weeks. He was reading from his dog-eared copy of  _ The Color Purple _ , skipping back and forth between passages he had highlighted, and murmuring dialogue under his breath. Celie was in the process of confiding to Shug that she was losing her faith when the screen door slammed and Harry looked up to see Louis walking across the lawn. 

Louis approached him slowly but not cautiously, and settled himself cross legged on the grass next to Harry’s outstretched legs. Harry wordlessly handed him a book, which Louis accepted. They sat in companionable silence for a long time, and Harry thought he was doing an admirable job of pretending his heart wasn’t racing a million miles a minute as he went through the motions of reading, barely processing the words on the page past the hopeful tears burning in his eyes. When Louis tapped Harry’s ankle with the spine of his book, his leg jerked so hard that Louis looked almost offended. 

“Listen to this,” Louis said, eyeing Harry oddly. He waited for Harry to set down his book before he cleared his throat and read, “I know that’s what people say -- you’ll get over it, I’d say it, too. But I know it’s not true. Oh, you’ll be happy again, never fear. But you won’t forget. Every time you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him.” 

By the time he had finished reading, Harry thought he was at a serious risk of a stroke. Everything was spinning and his pulse was pounding in his temples. If you asked him what the weather was like currently, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. He’d remembered that was in the book, surely he had, but he didn’t know what had possessed him to pass Louis that book. 

Louis lowered his book. “You highlighted that.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Harry’s throat was so dry his voice felt like it scraped his chords raw on its way out. 

“It’s highlighted, Harry,” Louis said, his tone patronizing and achingly familiar, and Harry wanted to scream. 

“You did,” Harry reached over and took the book out of Louis’ hand. He opened it to the front cover and showed Louis the inscription. He didn’t have to read it to know what it said. 

_ To Louis, from Harry. December 24th, 1983. Always. xx _

“This is my book?” Louis asked slowly. He was staring at Harry’s handwriting, the book still in Harry’s trembling hand. Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You gave me this book? For my birthday?” 

“I did,” Harry closed the book and dropped it to the grass. “It’s one of your favorites.”

“I remember reading it in high school,” Louis murmured, and Harry nodded. "But I don't remember you giving me this."

“I know you don’t,” Harry moved to hand him a different book. “It’s okay.” 

“Stop saying that,” Louis said sharply. “It isn’t okay. I’ve lost some very crucial years of my life, and you and everyone else just keeping telling me that it’s okay. It’s so very far from okay, and I’m fucking sick of hearing that.” 

Harry nodded dumbly, unsure of how to process Louis’ tirade. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And stop fucking saying that, for God’s sake,” Louis seemed about ready to tear his hair out in exasperation. “You were my friend, right? Fucking act like it. All this tiptoeing around me and apologizing for every fucking thing isn’t helping me.”

“I am your friend,” Harry said carefully, deciding to leave the discussion of Louis’ behavior the other night for a different time. “What is it you need from me?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis said helplessly. His hands flew to his head, one palm settling on his scar and the other gripping a handful of his hair. “Just, tell me who I was. I have no idea who I am. I’m an angry nineteen year old in a twenty six year old body and my fucking mom is washing my socks and there’s a man who won’t speak to me living in my guest room and nobody will tell me what I missed. Nobody will tell me what I forgot.”

“The doctor told us not to,” Harry began, but Louis was leaping to his feet before he could finish. 

“The fucking doctor,” Louis spat, his tone low and furious. “He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what’s good for me. There’s some big fucking secret about me that nobody’s telling me. I’m starting to think maybe I was an ax murderer or something. How did this even happen to me? Nobody will tell me that, either. It’s not fair.” 

“I know it’s not,” Harry said, failing to keep the tearful wobble out of his voice. He sat forward, imploring Louis with his body language. “I wanted to tell you, I did, and I asked four different doctors if it really was best to not tell you, and they all said it would either come back to you or it wouldn’t, and we couldn’t give you false memories or try to jumpstart your recovery.” 

“Bullshit,” Louis hissed. “Fucking bullshit. Weren’t we friends?”

“We are friends,” Harry said, ignoring the past tense. “We were friends for six years and we were friends until two weeks ago when our car pulled into this driveway and then suddenly you couldn’t stand me, and I’m doing my best but I don’t -.” 

“Our car,” Louis echoed. 

“What?” Harry was struggling to remain composed, and he was caught off guard by what Louis had chosen to take away from that statement. 

“Our car,” Louis repeated. “We co-own a car?’ 

Harry floundered for a lie, a denial, an explanation, anything. He couldn’t come up with one. He just sat there, pathetically, not answering Louis.

“You know what, Harry?” Louis tone was terrible, cold and detached, and Harry didn’t want to know what. “Go fuck yourself.” 

Louis went inside and left Harry there, crying on the front lawn, and when Jay came back from the grocery store she found him like that. She handed him a paper bag of groceries to carry and brought him inside and gave him a cup of coffee and didn’t ask why he had been crying. Something told Harry that she already knew. 

He sat at the island in the kitchen and watched her make dinner. His coffee went cold, and the desire to cry went away, and when he seemed ready, Jay handed him a leek and a knife and a cutting board and began regaling him with an anecdote about the twins’ shenanigans. Harry laughed at the right times, fully appreciating her motivation, and when he’d prepared the leeks, he moved on to the carrots, and then the shallots, and then he sliced the bread and assembled the salad. Jay talked him through putting away the rest of the groceries, and the late afternoon passed that way. 

It wasn’t a surprise to either of them when Louis wasn’t at dinner that night. Harry hoped they could get by without anyone commenting on it, but the universe seemed bound and determined to put him through it today, because he had barely started his stew when Daisy asked where Louis was.

“He’s lying down,” Jay said.   
“What did Harry say to him?”

“Daisy!” Jay reprimanded sharply just as Harry decided he’d had enough. He dropped his spoon into his bowl with a sour  _ clang _ and stood up from his chair. 

“May I speak to you outside, please, Daisy?” he asked politely. 

Everyone at the table seemed wary of that, but Daisy raised her chin defiantly and said, “Sure.” 

They went out onto the porch, and Harry left the door open a crack so that they would still be visible from where Dan sat at the end of the table. 

“What is your problem with me?” he asked.

Daisy folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t trust you.”

“Why not?” Harry ran a hand through his hair absently and shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

“Because Louis doesn’t.” 

“What Louis and I have going on is none of your concern,” Harry said. “I really don’t think it’s fair that you bestowed a snap judgement on me.” 

“It is my concern,” Daisy raised her voice slightly, and Harry heard murmuring from inside the house. “Somebody beat the shit out of my brother and apparently you just stood there and watched while it happened! Who the hell even are you? Coming to my house and just parking yourself here? Where do you belong in his life? You don’t belong in my life, and I don’t trust you, and I don’t like you!” 

“I don’t know where I belong in his life,” Harry shot back, struggling to keep his voice level, but he was shaking and his voice was raw as he tried to explain himself. “I can admit that. We had a whole life together, Daisy. We co-signed a lease. I wore his fucking ring. But now he wakes up every morning in his own bed and he has no idea what he means to me, and I can’t tell him, and I really don’t appreciate you not even bothering to get to know the situation before you decided it was my fault that there are shitty people in the world who do bad things to other people.” 

Daisy was speechless, her eyes wide and skin pale. “He’s gay?” 

Harry huffed out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yes, Daisy. We both are.” 

“Oh my God,” she murmured, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “Oh my God. They beat him up because he was gay?” 

“I couldn’t stop them,” Harry said wearily, not even bothering to correct her. “I tried, Daisy, I swear, but they almost killed him and for a very long time we didn’t think he would wake up. I know he’s your brother and I know he means a lot to you, but please know that he means that much more to me. I just need you to know that. I would have done anything to keep this from happening, anything, but it wouldn’t have been enough.” 

“I’m sorry,” Daisy said, her eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”

“I know,” Harry leaned back against the screen door jamb, utterly spent. “But now you do. So please, if you could try going a little easier on me. I’m not saying we have to be best friends, but being hostile is just making this situation harder for everyone.” 

“I understand,” she rushed, reaching a hand towards him, and then thinking better of it and pulling her arms back to her sides. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I forgive you,” Harry said. “Truce?”

“God, yes,” Daisy wiped furiously at her tears and offered him a watery smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing more to apologize for,” Harry opened the screen door and held it for her. He took a moment to celebrate this small victory before following her inside. 

Baby steps. 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had been in the Tomlinson-Deakin home for a month before he was told they had a piano. It was small, second-hand, slightly out of tune, and the most beautiful thing Harry had seen in a long time. He spent a few hours tuning it, relying on his ear to bring it back into playable shape, and once it was in working order, he plopped himself down on the bench and set right into his scales. Most of his days off were now spent huddled over the piano in the dark corner of the den, playing pieces that weren’t required by his job. A musician could only play  _ How Great Thou Art _ so many times before it really started to wear on them. 

Things were better now that Harry had music back in his life, and that wasn’t only because the sound of someone playing the piano had brought Louis to the den. Harry didn’t know what Louis had been expecting when he heard someone playing Air Supply on his family’s old piano, there were only so many people it could have been; but he appreciated Louis’ valiant attempt to hide the disappointment on his face when he saw who it was. After a moment of tense silence, Louis had set himself on the narrow piano bench next to Harry and started playing the left hand of Chopsticks. So yeah, things were better. 

It was a chilly Tuesday in November and they were at the piano now, squabbling their way through some Bach that Harry had found tucked away in the piano bench.   
  
“You can’t play this as a duet,” Louis declared, squinting at the yellowed sheet music. 

“You can do whatever you want to the Six Motets,” Harry argued. “Besides, I was here first, and if you want to stay, we’re going to play a duet.” 

Louis’ lips quirked into a smile and he said, “The way to rebuild our friendship is not through Bach cantatas.”

“It’s working so far,” Harry replied with an easy shrug. “Which clef are you playing?” 

“Don’t we have the New World symphony or something?” Louis stood up and tried to open the piano bench with Harry still sitting on it. “I hate Bach.” 

“You hate Dvorak, too,” Harry said thoughtlessly, snapping his mouth closed as soon as he realized he’d said it. 

“Since when?” Louis demanded, pausing in his futile bench lid lifting. 

“Since they made you play his seventh symphony in full for your senior concert,” Harry muttered.

“Well, I don’t remember that, so I guess this memory loss thing is going to force me to give Dvorak another chance,” Louis said airily. “Get off the bench.” 

Harry stood obediently, and didn’t grumble when Louis whacked him with the bench lid. Louis muttered to himself as he rifled through the old sheet music, and when Harry heard the lid slam, he sat back down. He was handed a mess of music, and rolled his eyes when he saw that it was Dvorak’s Seventh. 

“You are unbelievable,” he muttered, but he righted the pages and spread them across the wobbly music stand on the lid of the piano. 

Louis sat back down on the bench and busied himself sight reading the bass clef, plucking out chords and counting rhythms in his head. Harry watched him, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and joy at the tentative truce he and Louis seemed to have wordlessly drawn. It brought a sense of unease to Harry, having Louis’ solid warmth this close to him for a few hours on a Tuesday. Everything about Louis was painfully familiar, from the way his eyebrows knit together as he read the music to the way his hands moved quickly and deftly from one fingering to another. 

“Quit staring at me and read your music,” Louis ordered, and Harry turned away to comply. 

It took them less than an hour to navigate two pages of it, before Louis grew frustrated and bored and began plunking out the Star Wars theme with one hand. 

“Stop, Louis,” Harry begged, trying to pin Louis’ hands to the keyboard, groaning in frustration as Louis evaded his grasp every time and hammered out that same unrelenting triplet. He wasn’t really annoyed, how could he possibly be when Louis was joking with him and aggravating him like he had never resented him. Harry was so caught up in the familiarity of it that he didn’t think twice before whining, “You know I hate that, come on.”

“Do I?” Louis said offhandedly, and Harry froze under the weight of Louis’ heavy gaze. “Do I know you hate the Star Wars score?”

“Lou,” Harry warned. 

“I think I’d remember something like that, Harry, because I love the Star Wars score,” Louis’ hands were still on the keyboard now. “When did you tell me you hated it? Late 1982? During a night out in 1984? It must have been, because I don’t fucking remember that, Harry.” 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Louis cut him off with a savage, “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry.” 

Harry closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked together. The thing was, Louis wasn’t getting any better. He could see it and Jay could see it, and the worried lines in Dan’s forehead showed he could see it. Louis didn’t know who he was or what he wanted, or how to move forward from there. He had yet to openly admit that to anyone, but Harry could see it, even through their minimal interactions and guarded conversations, he knew Louis well enough to know that Louis was very scared. 

Harry didn’t know how to help this Louis. He remembered what Louis had been like when they met, when their friendship was new and not as close, but that wasn’t this Louis. Harry didn’t know how to reconcile every version of Louis he had in his head to make the person sitting in front of him make sense. He supposed Louis was having the same problem. The idea scared Harry a little bit. 

“Answer a question for me,” Louis said, his tone gentler now.  
  
“I can’t,” Harry said automatically. 

“You don’t even know what the question is, you moron,” Louis shot back, and his tone was almost teasing. “Just tell me what it was I did before this.” 

Harry worried his bottom lip between his teeth and blew out a slow, steady breath before replying. “You were a music teacher. You taught music at a private school in Manhattan.” 

“Did I like it?” Louis was staring off into space, his eyes unfocused and his body very, very still. 

Harry looked at him, at the cut of his jaw, shaded with uneven stubble and clenched so tightly it could only mean that Louis was overwhelmed, and he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to tell him that he knew that someday Louis wanted a three bedroom craftsman style home in Connecticut with an apple tree and box hedges and he wanted to name his first child Chris. He knew the way Louis’ breath hitched when he was about to cry and the way his thighs trembled when he was about to come. He knew Louis had a birthmark on the left side of his ribcage and his favorite place to have a hickey was on his hip bone. He knew Louis hated Jim Croce and had no reasonable explanation as to why. He knew that Louis had never kissed anybody before him. 

He knew that on some days Louis used to go into the music room in Niall’s apartment and lie on the floor next to the window and let the sun warm him right down to his bones, and sometimes when he was like that, sleepy and heavy and pliant, he would let Harry touch him. He had known Louis for a very long time, and he didn’t know how to tell him. He wasn’t supposed to, and now that it seemed to be coming down to it, he wasn’t sure if he should. 

There was a permanent frown to Louis’ mouth now, worried and uncertain, and his brow was knit as he stared into the middle distance. Without thinking, Harry reached forward and pressed his thumb to the crease between Louis’ eyebrows, smoothing it out gently. 

“You loved it,” Harry murmured, taking his hand away and doing his best to ignore the stupefied expression on Louis’ face. 

“Harry,” Louis breathed.

“Yeah?” Harry asked. 

“Tell me,” Louis wasn’t pleading, not yet, but Harry couldn’t let it get that far. His resolve wasn’t that strong.

“I can’t,” Harry said. “Please don’t ask me again. Please. If you ask me again I won’t be able to say no and I can’t take that. Please, Louis.” 

“You will eventually,” and Louis seemed so sure. “You’ll tell me eventually. I may not know you very well anymore, but I know enough about you to know you’ve never been good at not giving me what I need.” 

With that, Louis stood up and left Harry alone. After he’d gone, Harry mulled those words over in his head, knowing that he was right. Harry was going to tell him eventually. He loved him too much to keep it from him for much longer. 

Harry stayed at the piano for several more hours after that, numbing his mind with the over complicated movements of Dvorak that were still spread out in front of him in an attempt to ignore the anxiety clawing at his stomach. It didn’t work, but then again, he hadn’t really expected it to. This music brought back too many memories of Louis throwing practice books across the room and slamming piano lids dramatically as he cursed the entire college administration and Dvorak and his  _ fucking _ piano. 

He was well into the fourth movement when Dan came down to the den, whistling a tune and holding two bottles of beer. Harry took a bottle when it was offered, but he didn’t speak. Dan seemed to be expecting this, so he merely settled himself onto a worn out recliner situated slightly behind Harry and took a few pulls of his own beer.

“So,” Dan said after a moment. “What did you tell him?”

Harry set his untouched beer down on the lid of the piano. “That he was a music teacher.”

“That was it?”

Harry nodded.

“You expect me to believe the shock of hearing that he used to teach music to rich kids was enough to make him cry?” Dan’s tone was laced with disbelief. 

At that, Harry whipped his head to look at Dan. “He’s crying?”

“He’s always crying. There aren’t enough boxes of Kleenex in the world to keep up with you two,” Dan joked. “Every time Jay and I turn around, someone’s got the waterworks going. We had less crying with a house full of teenage girls.” 

“All I said was that he taught music and he used to really like it,” Harry muttered. “I didn’t tell him anything else. I didn’t tell him about us. Or how it happened.”

Dan hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder if we shouldn’t at least tell him that much.” 

“How do you tell someone who isn’t even out of the closet that he was attacked in broad daylight for holding someone’s hand?” Harry asked wildly, shifting his weight on the piano bench to fully face Dan. “How do you tell someone he made the mistake of holding your hand and he ended up in a coma because of it?”

“Easy there,” Dan said placatingly. “I think he deserves to know, that’s all. And we wouldn’t phrase it quite like that.” 

“He shouldn’t have to know,” Harry said. “He shouldn’t have to know that kind of thing happened to him. That’s the kind of knowledge somebody can live without.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dan’s matter-of-fact tone drew a laugh out of Harry, but his tone was somber when he continued. “I heard you two just a minute ago. You could have driven a fleet of eighteen wheelers through the gaps in your conversation. He remembers you. Something about you reminds him of something, and it’s driving him crazy. The longer you leave it, the worse it’s going to be when you finally break or he figures it out.” 

“The doctor said-”

“Screw the doctor,” Dan said flatly, taking another sip of his beer. “He doesn’t know Louis, and he doesn’t know you. The false memories nonsense is just that. Nonsense. A person deserves to know how they lived and who they loved and what led them to the place they are now. He’s got no idea who he grew up to be, so he’s got nothing to build on. It isn’t right.”

“You’re right,” Harry murmured. Tears smarted at his eyes, and he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or fear or relief that was making him feel lightheaded. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Dan shrugged and rose from his chair. He came to stand by Harry and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just do it.” 

He took Harry’s still full beer in the same hand as his now empty one, and left. Harry folded up the Dvorak and put it away in the bench. It couldn’t possibly be that easy, but he knew that’s what it was going to come down to. Just telling him.    



	5. Chapter 5

There was a new kind of tension between Harry and Louis now, since their quality time at the piano and Harry’s tearful pleading, a new kind of relationship had bloomed, one that consisted of more quiet time, and more teasing, and less crying. 

Harry still had not told Louis, but it had only been a week since his conversation with Dan, and he decided rebuilding the base of a friendship with Louis would soften the blow of the news when it finally came the right time to tell Louis. The idea of recounting that day still made Harry feel sick inside, the same old hardened fear building inside him until he quelled it and pushed it back deep into the recesses of his brain. He wasn’t ready for it, either. 

Jay picked up on their budding friendship, and quietly encouraged them to spend time together, evacuating the room when they were alone, or pairing them up for household chores. Louis seemed unamused by her shenanigans, but he helped Harry fold sheets and wash dishes, and in the meantime, he managed to keep his eye rolling to a minimum. 

Harry was at work more often than he was at home, and he hated it. His boss was stuffy and homophobic, the church building was musty and his office was tiny, but the choir was made up of some good folks who turned out to be more open to modern music than Harry had initially thought. Apparently congregations were just as tired of  _ Onward Christian Soldiers _ as music directors, and Harry took that knowledge and ran with it, introducing more and more contemporary music as time wore on. He wasn’t sure what it would end up meaning for his job security, but the first Sunday he made it through a service without wanting to cry from boredom, he considered his work a success.

Thanksgiving was approaching, and Jay was putting everyone to work in the kitchen, including Harry. He’d baked three pecan pies in the last week, and they seemed to be disappearing at an extremely rapid rate. Louis helped him sometimes, cracking pecans and throwing the shells at Harry, or meticulously counting every pie weight as it went into the crust before Harry pre-baked it. Harry reveled in the attention, and was reminded of the way his relationship with Louis had started every time Louis teased him about the domesticity of his behavior. 

They’d yet to address Louis’ reaction to Harry’s coming out, but sometimes Harry could feel Louis apologizing for it in that way he had. When he noticed Harry had trimmed his hair, Louis complimented him on it, and he always commented when Harry wore his pink sweatshirt with the bleach stain and the fraying collar. It wasn’t an apology, and they were going to have to talk about it eventually, but it was a start. They were both very aware they were on an uneven playing field, but they were making do. 

Louis was rapidly improving at home, he was gaining weight and laughing more and his hair had grown back in, a soft, short fuzz over his scar tissue. Harry thought back to his previous doubts about bringing Louis here, and felt at ease knowing he’d made the right call, but until he could pull himself together and address his relationship with Louis, his future still hung in the balance. He couldn’t stay here forever. 

It all came to a head on the Monday before Thanksgiving when Harry came home to find Louis in his room. He almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming at the sight of Louis sitting on his bed, wearing his pink sweatshirt, occupying his space like he had never left it. 

Louis didn’t look up when he entered. He was holding something in his hands. A photograph. With a sickening lurch, Harry immediately knew which one it was.

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, still clutching his bag and his car keys in his hands. 

Louis looked up at him then, and Harry could see the tears standing in his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Louis whispered. 

Harry couldn’t breathe. 

Louis turned the photo in his hands so Harry could see it, but it was unnecessary. He knew it, every grainy centimeter of it, and he should have left it in its frame in their apartment, but he couldn’t bring himself to have nothing of the two of them. The photo was them on their fourth anniversary, right after Louis had given Harry his ring, and they were both crying in the photo, much as they were right now. Harry couldn’t help but feel worse at the irony of that. In the photo he was smiling so wide he felt the phantom ache in his cheeks, and Louis was standing on his tiptoes with his entire body pressed flush to Harry as he pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. 

“We were lovers,” Louis said. It wasn’t a question. He stated it flatly. 

“Yes,” Harry breathed, still frozen in the doorway.

“How long?” Louis demanded, his voice even and tempered. 

“Louis,” Harry took a step towards the bed. 

“How long, Harry?” Louis didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice, but Harry felt the desperation in it like a blow to the chest.

There was nothing Harry could do but answer him. “Almost six years.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis choked then, dropping the photo to the bedspread. 

Harry set down his bag and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving a safe distance between Louis and himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Louis’ eyes were full of tears, and they searched Harry’s face as if the answer to his question was there. His gaze caught on Harry’s open shirt, and when he saw Harry’s necklace, his breath stuttered in his throat. “Is that mine?” his voice sounded strangled. 

“I’ve been wearing your ring for almost three years, Louis,” Harry murmured, and Louis choked again. 

“You took mine?” a tear rolled down Louis’ cheek, but he ignored it. “You took my ring?”

“No, Louis, you don’t understand,” Harry shifted up onto his knees so that he was kneeling on the bed. “You didn’t remember.”  
  
“So you took it away from me?” Louis seemed equal parts wounded and horrified, and Harry wasn’t sure what those emotions were in response to.   
  
“Please listen-”

“You decided I shouldn’t know? You took that away from me?”  
  
“You asked for your wife,” Harry blurted. 

The silence that followed was awful. 

“What?” Louis finally gasped, barely an utterance. 

“When you woke up after the, um, incident,” Harry frantically tried to piece his words together in a sensitive manner, aware of Louis’ growing anxiety and confusion. “I was with you, right next to you, and you saw the ring on your finger, and you looked me right in the eye and I knew you didn’t know me, and you said, ‘Where’s my wife?’. And then you went back to sleep, and I took your ring off and I left and the nurse told me the next time you woke up you didn’t remember that, and you didn’t ask for me.” 

“Why would I-” 

“You thought you were still closeted, Louis,” Harry explained gently. “It’s okay.” 

“No it’s not,” Louis ground out. “God, please stop saying that. I’ve been so scared. I thought something was wrong with me. I thought my mom didn’t know, and I’ve been waiting for them to ask you to leave because you- but I- oh God.” 

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry was crying now, a steady stream of salty tears running down his face unbidden and unhindered, and he was desperately trying to fix this, to find the magic words that would put Louis back together so he could wrap himself around him and keep him from ever falling apart ever again. 

“All this time I’ve been so scared of you and the way you made me feel because nobody thought to fucking tell me that I’ve felt that way for six years,” Louis sounded almost like he was talking to himself now, and Harry felt like an intruder, listening to Louis try and make sense of it all. 

Louis turned to look at Harry, and he hesitantly brought his hand up to cup Harry’s face. Harry instinctively turned his head into the touch, trying to bite back a whimper as the pads of Louis’ fingers delicately traced Harry’s cheekbones. 

“You know me so intimately,” Louis’ voice fell on the last word, hushed and pitched low in his chest, and Harry tried not to ache with longing for the times he’d heard that tone in Louis’ voice.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, unwilling to lie, unsure of what lie he even had left to give. “I do.”

“You’ve touched me,” Louis said, not questioningly, still gently stroking Harry’s face. 

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. It was quiet for a very long time, Louis still holding Harry, Harry with his eyes closed and his breath bated. 

At long last, Louis said “I don’t know you. Not the way you know me. I don’t remember touching you.” 

Harry’s eyes had filled with tears before Louis even finished speaking, and his body quivered. 

“I want to,” Louis whispered, and Harry’s eyes flew open. “I want to know you.” 

It was quiet again. 

“I want to touch you.”

Harry let that settle into his ears, into his bones, committing to memory the way those words sounded on Louis’ tongue. It had only been a few months since he’d heard them, but it felt like a lifetime. There was what felt like a lifetime between them here on Harry’s bed, with their knees barely touching and Louis’ hand on Harry’s face. Louis reached up with his other hand to wipe away Harry’s tears, and fire crawled up Harry’s spine, slow and smarting and intense. 

“I need you to tell me,” Louis whispered, and Harry nodded. 

“I will,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.” 

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Louis began, but Harry stopped him.

“No,” he said, taking Louis’ wrists in his hands and pulling them away from his face. “I’ll tell you now. Please. I can’t have you not know anymore.” 

“Alright,” Louis let Harry hold his wrists, and Harry felt the points of contact like a brand. After a long moment he pulled himself free from Harry’s loose grip, and reached for Harry’s necklace. He looped a finger through one of the rings and tugged on it gently. Harry went where he was pulled, moving towards Louis when Louis pulled him was second nature, something his muscles just instinctively knew how to do, like a handshake or a yawn. 

Louis didn’t pull Harry too far into his space, just close enough that he could crane his neck up and press a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Be honest with me,” he murmured, and Harry nodded against Louis’ mouth. 

“I’d never lied to you before this,” he murmured. “I never kept anything from you. You were my best friend and I told you everything, and it’s been killing me to keep this from you.” 

Louis smiled and gently pushed Harry back. “Sounds like the kind of man I’d buy a ring for.”

Harry laughed at that, weak and wobbly, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’m telling you right now it’s going to be a lot. I’m not the only person you forgot and there’s going to be more bad news.”

“I need to know,” Louis said quietly. 

“You have a best friend,” Harry began. “Back in New York. It isn’t me. He’s,” Harry faltered, “he’s got AIDS. And he’s not going to make it.” 

Louis didn’t visibly react to that, which made Harry balk, but he steeled himself, knowing this wasn’t the same Louis who wore his heart on his sleeve and couldn’t keep an emotion from registering on his face if he tried. 

“I have a friend, his name is Niall, you met him, he helped us plan the trip, he lives with him and sometimes he calls me and tells me how he is, and it’s not good,” Harry continued. “You didn’t meet him until after you met me. The doctor said it was a bad idea to make you deal with the shock of finding out you had a best friend who’s dying so soon after the kind of trauma you suffered. He wanted it. He wanted us to keep him a secret. He misses you, though.” 

Louis pulled on a loose thread in the sleeve of Harry’s sweatshirt. He didn’t look at Harry.

“You remember meeting me, but you don’t remember us getting together,” Harry pulled on his bottom lip absently as he tried and failed to find a way to put this delicately. “We had sex. On my nineteenth birthday. We were very drunk and it was not romantic at all, and you woke up in the morning in my bed and threw up all over me. It was disgusting and I still resent you for it.” 

“I don’t even remember it,” Louis said with a small laugh.

“Yeah well, I won't ever be able to forget it,” Harry informed him. 

“What was it like?” Louis asked quietly, and Harry blinked, confused. “Us,” Louis clarified. 

“You were my best friend first and I wouldn’t trade our friendship for the world, but you were a better lover than you were a friend,” Harry exhaled slowly, remembering it fondly. “Everything you did was for me, it felt like. We weren’t co-dependent or anything, and if we were neither of us cared, but you were different around me. Softer. You would bring me flowers after work and you’d spoon me whenever I asked, and when I was upset you would swear off talking about Star Wars for at least a week just to make me feel better.” 

“We’re going to have to discuss your hatred of Star Wars,” Louis cut in. “I can’t believe I gave you a ring and committed my life to you knowing you don’t like Star Wars.” 

“Hush, you,” Harry poked Louis in the ribs, indulging in a laugh, but it didn’t do much to lighten the mood. “The first time we had sex when we were both sober I cried.”

“Harry,” Louis said, his cheeks coloring, but Harry shook his head. 

“You have to know,” Harry murmured. “It’s okay. I did cry. You made me feel so loved when you fucked me, it was unreal. I miss that.” 

Louis rolled his eyes, but Harry could see he was embarrassed, so he moved on. 

“We were together for almost four years before you gave me a ring,” Harry shifted on the bed so that he was mirroring Louis’ posture, cross legged with his elbows on his knees. “It was the best night of my life. You said you were going to marry me no matter what the law said because I wanted it so much. You said I was too good for a civil union. There was one time you dropped your ring down the sink and I cried for an hour because I thought it was lost. Niall put some gum on a pipe cleaner and pulled it out. I almost married him for that.” 

“Who said I love you first?” 

Harry blanched, not sure how that was relevant, but he remembered, so he replied, “I did.” 

“Are you sure?” Louis raised a disbelieving eyebrow, and Harry laughed. 

“I’m very sure,” Harry said. “But you said it right back.” 

“I’ll take that,” Louis reached out and rested his hand on Harry’s ankle. “How did this happen?” 

He didn’t have to indicate or further explain for Harry to know what he meant. 

“We were out,” Harry began, already fighting past the lump in his throat. “We went out to get groceries or something, I don’t even remember, and we were on a quiet street, so you reached out and held my hand, and I guess we forgot to let go because somebody grabbed me and threw me on the ground and started yelling at me, so you hit him. He wasn't alone though, and they all piled on top of you,” Harry’s vision was swimming and he felt residual panic rising in him just remembering how it felt to be there, watching it like some sort of movie, except it wasn’t, it was his life and he couldn’t stop it. “I couldn’t get them off of you, and nobody would help us, and one of them pushed me and I hit my head and they told me at the hospital that I had a concussion. We still don’t know what they hit you with,” he reached up to the scar on Louis’ head as he said that, not touching it, just resting his hand on Louis’ cheek. “And we still don’t know who they were.” 

“This happened in New York?” Louis seemed shocked to hear that, and Harry could understand why. 

“Things had been getting bad for a while,” Harry told him. “With AIDS and all that. There wasn’t even a name for it until this year. It’s always on the news and people are scared.”

Louis accepted that with a nod, but he was pale and drawn. Harry hated it. He pulled his hands back and folded them in his lap. 

“There’s not much else to tell,” Harry told him honestly. “You got your degrees and you were working at a private school, and your favorite age of student was the second graders. I was planning our wedding when the accident happened, or I guess it would be called our commitment ceremony, and you-”

“Our what?” Louis stopped Harry with a hand to his shoulder. “You were what?”

“I was planning our commitment ceremony,” Harry repeated. 

“Oh, Harry,” Louis said softly, and there was so much pain in his voice when he echoed, “Harry.” 

“If you keep that up I’ll cry again,” Harry said pathetically. “It was hard, yeah. You’d bought your tuxedo and everything. We were going to do it before your friend got too sick because you’d promised him he could be your best man.” 

“Is he too sick now?” Louis seemed almost afraid to hear the answer. 

“Probably,” Harry admitted. “But he wrote you a letter and he gave Niall his speech just in case. I haven’t seen either of them, but Niall said he cried reading them.” 

“How did you do it?” Louis interrupted. 

“I asked Niall what the backup plan was-”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Louis waved his hand. “I mean...going from planning our wedding to having me wake up and not know it was your ring I was wearing.” 

“It was hard,” Harry was unable to keep his voice from breaking as he said it. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and it’s still hard. I loved you so much. I do still. I love you so much, and it’s been really hard having nowhere for all of that love to go. Weddings can be rescheduled, that’s neither here nor there. I thought I was naive to believe you’d ever love me again, and I still don’t know what our future will be like, but I think we can make something work. We can be friends. Or whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Louis pondered that for a moment. He seemed a little stunned, and Harry didn’t blame him. 

“Well,” Louis said finally. “I guess since I’m a better lover than I am a friend, your words exactly, we can start there, but if I fell in love with you once, I don’t see why it couldn’t happen again.”

Something unspooled in Harry’s chest then, a tightness that he didn’t realize he’d been carrying, and he gave one heaving sob of relief before he burst into tears and folded his body into Louis’. Louis smelled like he used to, of laundry soap and cigarettes and sweat, and Harry’s sweatshirt smelled like his cologne. Harry’s chest ached as he struggled to catch his breath and calm himself down and be there for Louis who had just found out he’d been the victim of a hate crime and had a friend dying of AIDS, but he couldn’t deny himself this. 

Louis didn’t deny him, either. He held Harry as he cried, rocking him back and forth gently and carefully toying with the short hairs at the nape of Harry’s neck in an effort to soothe him. Harry cried until he was tired, and Louis must have sensed it, he must have some muscle memory where it came to Harry, and he pushed Harry away from him gently so he could lie down on the bed. 

“Go to sleep,” Louis murmured. “I need some time. It’ll be okay. I’ll wake you up for dinner.” 

Harry nodded, his tear stained cheek rubbing against the bedspread, and drifted off. Louis stayed next to him while he slept, a comforting, warm weight on the mattress. Harry slept through dinner. Louis didn’t leave his side all night. 


	6. Chapter 6

Winter seemed to arrive overnight, bringing with it several inches of snow and a bitter, sharp wind that sliced you to the bone no matter how many layers you were wearing. This was apparently not the norm for Oklahoma, but Harry didn’t know enough about the state to call anyone’s bluff when they exclaimed about the unusually low temperature. Despite the weather, Louis spent a lot of time outside. Harry could see him sitting under a tree, bundled up in two sweaters and a coat, his back to the wind and his hood pulled up over his head. He’d been strangely reclusive since Harry had told him the truth, but he couldn’t be blamed, really. 

They hadn’t really talked since that night, when Harry woke up, Louis was there, asleep on top of the blankets still wearing Harry’s sweatshirt. Harry got up to brush his teeth, and when he came back, Louis was gone, but the sweatshirt was folded on the bed. If Harry had worn it to sleep every night since, that was nobody’s business but his own. 

Dan had responded well when Harry told him that Louis knew, and Jay was concerned as to what it might mean for Louis’ recovery, but they were taking it one day at a time. It seemed to be working so far, except at that moment Louis was outside in a single digit temperature, and it made Harry cold just to look at him. So, naturally, Harry put on his own coat and his hat and went outside. 

Louis didn’t acknowledge his presence, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to. He brushed the snow off the porch swing and settled himself onto it, using his leg to slowly propel the swing as he watched Louis. He wasn’t doing anything; just sitting and watching the odd snowflake drift by. It was peaceful, as the world often is when blanketed with snow. Sound was muffled, and the air was clear and sharp. Everything was white and glimmering as far as the eye could see, the pristine horizon only broken up by the odd skeleton of a tree, stark and jagged in relief against the pillowy snowbanks. 

After an interminable amount of time Harry asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

His voice carried over the snow covered ground, and it seemed to echo through the stillness. 

“Little bit,” Louis replied quietly. 

“There’s hot cocoa inside,” Harry offered casually. 

Louis turned to look at him, then, his expression unreadable. “I’m not that cold.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “Do you want to tell me why you’ve been sitting in a snow drift for the last hour?”

“Snow drifts don’t ask questions,” Louis said pointedly, and Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. 

“The sofa in the family room doesn’t either,” Harry retorted. “And if you asked them not to, neither would your family.” 

“My mom is worried,” Louis’ breath was a cloud of white as he exhaled. 

“Your mom has been worried since we got here, but she’s even more worried that you’re now electing to spend your free time ankle deep in snow,” Harry stood up from the porch swing and moved to go back inside. “Come on, we can watch a movie or something.” 

“Yeah?” Louis was timid, his voice almost inaudible. 

Harry paused and turned to look at Louis. There was a certain fragileness to him, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and his eyes lowered. Harry could see there were snowflakes caught on his eyelashes.

“Yeah,” he repeated, and held his hand out towards Louis. 

Louis only hesitated a moment before coming to Harry and taking his hand. They went inside, hands linked, shaking snow out of their hair and tracking it all over the kitchen floor. Jay didn’t reprimand them, but she eyed the pair of them warily as they dropped hands to peel off their coats and then re-linked them easily. Harry did his best to shoot her what he hoped was an encouraging glance as he led Louis into the family room.

Lottie and Felicité were already there, curled together under a mountain of blankets, and what appeared to be the comforter from Harry’s bed.

“What are we watching?” Harry asked as he settled on the opposite end of the sofa from them and pulled Louis down to sit next to him.   
  
“Sixteen Candles,” Lottie replied, making a valiant effort to disguise her shock at Louis’ appearance and his current proximity to Harry. 

Felicité wordlessly passed him the comforter.

“Is this mine?” Harry tucked the end around his legs and tossed the rest of it onto Louis’ lap. 

“It was the closest blanket in the house,” Lottie explained casually.

“I didn’t want it,” Felicité chimed in. “Reeks of your cologne.” 

“Hey,” Harry laughed. “It’s not that bad.”

Lottie raised an imperious eyebrow at him. “Did you know mom separates your laundry from ours so it won’t stink up everyone else’s clothes? I don’t think there’s anyone who enjoys it, Harry.”

“Speak for yourself, Lots,” Louis cut in. “I don’t mind it.” 

Lottie snorted. “Figures.” 

Companionable silence settled over them, Lottie and Felicité burrowing impossibly deeper into their mound of blankets, Harry hyper aware of Louis’ tense form next to him on the sofa. Despite that, when Louis reached out and poked Harry in the ribs, Harry still jumped. 

“Have I seen this before?” Louis asked him, and Harry frowned.

“Why?”

Louis fixed Harry with a look, as if it was supposed to be obvious. “I want to know if I liked it or not.” 

It escaped Harry, the reason why Louis would rather know all of his past opinions and interests, rather than give himself the chance to see everything again. Maybe he was trying to save time, or jumpstart the process, but it made Harry uneasy. 

“Why don’t you wait and see if you like it?” Harry said after a moment, deciding better of feeding Louis his old opinions. “There’s no point in giving you a fixed preconception.”

“Did you like it?” Louis asked conversationally.

“I didn’t,” Harry replied. “It’s not John Hughes’ best work.”

“What is, then?” 

“The Breakfast Club,” Harry shifted under the blanket, curling his legs up underneath himself. “It came out earlier this year.” 

“Did I like that?” Louis moved towards Harry, scooting towards him and pressing their thighs together under the blanket. 

“We’ll have to watch it and find out,” Harry deflected, and Louis scoffed, but fell silent. 

The movie played on, only interrupted by Jay bringing everyone a steaming mug of hot cocoa, and as the credits rolled across the screen Louis said, “That was shit.” 

Felicité scowled at him. “You just don’t get it.”

“I’m mentally the same age as everyone in that movie,” Louis reminded her. “That gives me authority and I’m using it to say it was shit.” 

Lottie extricated herself from the blankets and took the empty cocoa mugs into the kitchen, muttering something under her breath about artistic sensibility, and Harry chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Louis demanded, turning the force of his indignance upon Harry. “I thought you didn’t care for it, either.” 

“I don’t,” Harry bit back another laugh and pulled the comforter off of himself, throwing the entire blanket on top of Louis. 

It took Louis a long moment to struggle his way out of the blanket, and when he emerged, hair sticking up at every angle and an unamused scowl drawing his eyebrows together, Harry wanted to kiss him. Louis met his eyes for a moment, and Harry was sure Louis could tell what he was thinking, but then Louis reached out and poked Harry on the cheek. He was charged with static electricity, and Harry yelped as the shock stung at his cheek, effectively putting an end to his train of thought. 

Lottie and Felicité surrendered the living room, heaping their relinquished blankets on top of them, and leaving the two of them there, pressed next to each other on one end of the sofa with their legs tangled together and Flashdance playing on the TV. 

“This one is shit, too,” Louis commented, and Harry laughed. 

“Good music, though,” Harry said, and Louis grunted in the affirmative. They were quiet after that, only breaking the comfortable silence to remark on the quality of the movie.

Towards the end, Jay came in with her own mug of cocoa and settled herself into an armchair. Harry felt Louis tense up as she entered. They made it to a commercial break before anyone spoke. 

“How are you feeling, Louis?” Jay asked carefully.

“Fine,” he answered shortly.

Harry looked at him in surprise, taken aback by his tone. Louis adored his mother, was rarely every brusque with her, and certainly never as dismissive as he had just been. Harry nudged Louis forcefully with his foot. 

“What?” Louis muttered, curling further into himself. Jay seemed to sense the unrest, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Louis cut her off with a curt, “Mom, I really don’t want to answer any more questions.” 

Jay was stunned, her mouth open slightly and her eyebrows knit. Harry gave Louis another reproachful shove. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to snap, but every answer I have to give you will be the same as it was when you last asked me the question.”   
  
“I forgive you,” Jay replied, but she still looked a little shell shocked. “I didn’t realize we’d been asking you so many questions. I’m sorry you felt pressured.” 

“It’s alright,” Louis said softly. He cut a glance over to Harry, who nodded tightly. It was enough for now. 

They finished out the movie in silence, Louis’ biting criticisms of the film a little more subdued now that Jay was present, but she chuckled at a few of his remarks about the absurdities of it. As the credits began rolling, she rose from her chair and came over to them. She dropped a kiss to each of their foreheads, surprising both of them, and murmured a “Goodnight,” as she left them. 

“I feel like a jerk,” Louis said when she had gone, and Harry just hummed. “Oh stop,” Louis scoffed, giving him a shove. “I’m remorseful.” 

“She just loves you, Louis,” Harry muttered. “She and Dan both, they just want you to find your footing.” 

“I know,” Louis shifted his weight on the sofa and turned to face Harry, folding himself smaller to fit in the niche between Harry’s legs and the back of the sofa. “Tell me about your mom.” 

Harry’s heart clenched at that, because of course Louis didn’t remember. “She lives overseas,” he said carefully.

“Sorry, is that not something we talked about?” Louis pulled away from him 

“It used to be, but not so much anymore,” Harry explained gingerly. “She moved to London after my step-dad died, and she wanted me to come with her. I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Louis asked easily, and Harry hated how easy that question sounded. 

“You,” Harry decided to answer as simply as Louis had asked. “I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I wouldn’t have come with you?” Louis groped under the blankets for the TV remote, found it, and turned the TV off, plunging the room into darkness and quiet. 

“We were both in school at the time,” in the dark, Harry was very aware of Louis’ calf pressing against his thigh. “I could have transferred, but you were halfway through your Master’s and they wouldn’t let you. So no, you wouldn’t have, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.” 

“So you just don’t talk to her?” Louis’ eyes found Harry’s in the dark.

“She called on my birthday,” Harry fidgeted, casting his glance anywhere but at Louis’ dimly lit face. “She’ll probably call on Christmas. I talk to my sister more often, but I haven’t spoken to her since the day of your accident.” 

“Why not?” Louis was posing him impossible questions in the easiest turns of phrases, and something roiled in Harry’s stomach, uncomfortable and unwilling. 

“She said we should have been more careful because we knew things like that could happen,” Harry said, his tone sounding clipped and harsh to his own ears. “She was right, but I didn’t need to hear it right then, so I hung up on her, and we haven’t called each other since.” 

Louis didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t offer advice or profess a judgement, and Harry supposed he should be grateful. He had to fix things with Gemma, he knew that, but he had never been good at apologizing. 

“Well,” Louis said after a long moment. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.” 

“Okay,” Harry said automatically. “Do me a favor, though. Promise me you’ll stay inside tomorrow.”

Louis considered this for a moment. “Fine.”

It was dark in the room, but Harry nodded. “Goodnight, Louis.” 

After some floundering as he untangled himself from the blankets, Louis climbed off the couch and stretched briefly. He reached out and ruffled Harry’s hair. “Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry didn’t see him leave; it was too dark, but when a different kind of quiet settled over the room, he knew he was alone. He sat there a while, staring at the watery oblongs of weak light that the moon was casting onto the wood floor of the living room. Without thinking, he reached to his right, where he knew the phone rested on top of a copy of TV Guide from last April. 

He didn’t know what spurred him; maybe Louis’ lack of verbalized judgement, maybe his newfound awareness of mortality, maybe his jealousy of Louis’ own relationship with his family, whatever it was, Harry took the phone off the hook and dialed a number. It rang once, twice, and Harry knew it was only an hour later there, but it would just be his luck if-

“Hello?” 

Harry’s breath caught in his chest, and he choked. “Gemma.” 

“Harry?” there was rustling on the other end of the line, and when she spoke again, Harry could hear the tears in her voice as she repeated, “Harry?” 

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. 

“Oh, Harry,” Gemma’s voice wavered faintly, pulling something in Harry’s stomach, and he started crying the same moment she did. 

They sat there on opposite ends of the phone and listened to the other cry for a good long time, and then spent even longer catching up, Gemma stammering out apologies and Harry meeting them equally with his own, both of them crying and laughing and crying again, and when Harry finally hung up the phone, the sun was rising. The house was dimly lit in gray as he stumbled up to his bedroom, where the white light of a December dawn was making shapes on his bedroom curtains. He fell face first into his bed with his jeans still on. 

When his alarm went off two hours later, he couldn’t even find it in himself to be tired. 


	7. Chapter 7

It was two weeks to Louis’ twenty-seventh birthday, and a Tuesday, when he came down to the den and seated himself on the piano bench next to Harry. This much was routine for them by now, and Harry acclimatized and made space for him, just as he did every week. He pushed the music further to the left of the rest so Louis could see it, and moved his hands up an octave. 

Harry was just placing his hands for their opening chord, when Louis said, as casually as you please, “I want to go back to New York,” and Harry’s hands fell to the keys, producing a sound he didn’t think the piano would ever recover from. 

“You what?” Harry demanded, turning on the bench to look at Louis. 

“I want to go back to New York,” Louis repeated, his tone even and measured. “I want to go back and live in our apartment and try to put my life back together. If that’s alright with you.” 

_ Of course that’s alright _ , Harry thought,  _ that’s all I’ve wanted since we got here, all I’ve wanted since you woke up in the hospital, every day I wake up and pray it’s the day you’ll look at me and say you want to go home, _ but Harry knew he couldn’t say that, couldn’t ever verbalize that he so selfishly thought of some drafty apartment in a hostile city as Louis’ home, of himself as Louis’ home, when coming back to his real home had done him so much good. 

“Sounds good to me,” is what Harry elected to say instead. 

“I’m going to tell mom tonight,” Louis idly picked at his fingernail, his eyes roaming anywhere but Harry’s.

“Before Christmas?” Harry tried to keep his tone neutral, but there must have been some hint of surprise in it, because Louis finally looked at him, and Harry could see amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, Harry,” Louis said with a smile. “No time like the present.” 

“Some present,” Harry scoffed lightly, and Louis laughed. 

“Very punny,” Louis commended, shoving Harry with his shoulder. “Now, what are we playing?” 

The subject dropped, Harry turned back to the music and walked Louis through the rewrites he’d enacted upon a choral arrangement of  _ Good King Wenceslas _ .

Louis wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t realize you were working down here.”

“I’m always working,” Harry commented idly. “We can do something else, though.” 

“No, no,” Louis corrected his posture and leaned into the music, squinting at it in an over-exaggerated fashion. “Show me the way, mister music director.” 

“If only my choir would address me with such respect,” Harry remarked bitterly, but he took his place on the piano and plonked out the over familiar melody. 

Louis began layering in chords as they went, music still second nature to him, even without a Master’s degree, even missing six years of experience, music still came to Louis as though it belonged to him, yearned for him, even, and Harry marveled at it. 

They stayed that way, leaning over the music, rewriting parts and adding another part for the organ, and before Harry knew it, dinner was being called. Louis practically leapt up from the bench and sprinted out of the room, and Harry was only stunned for a moment before he remembered why. He followed at a more leisurely pace, hesitant to be part of the scene he knew was about to take place. 

Louis didn’t waste any time. Everyone had scarcely been seated, and Jay was making rounds about the table, ladling tomato soup into bowls when Louis spoke. 

“I want to go back to New York,” Louis said, and Harry heard the world devolving into chaos around him more than he saw it. His gaze zeroed in on Louis as Jay dropped the serving spoon right into Dan’s bowl, sending a splash of hot soup directly into his lap. 

Dan swore loudly, which made Ernest cry, which made Doris cry. Daisy was yelling at Louis while Lottie tried to console the twins, and Jay was crying while Louis surveyed the scene in front of him with something akin to horror. Harry just watched Louis. 

“Mom,” Louis rasped, and everything came to a halt. 

After a long, terrible moment of silence, Lottie seemed to come back to herself, and she handed Doris to Felicité before taking a still whining Ernest out of his booster seat. They left the room with Dan close behind, soup all down his front and a stunned expression on his face. Phoebe ushered a distressed Daisy out, which left Harry and Jay and Louis with the wreckage of their dinner spread out on the table before them. Soup dripped from the table to the floor where Doris had upended her bowl in her upset state, but nobody moved to wipe it up. Jay stood rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable. 

“Mom,” Louis repeated. There was a tenderness in him, his face soft and almost devastating in its vulnerability. “I thought you’d be happy.” 

“I am,” she murmured, sinking into Dan’s empty chair. “I am, believe me. I’m just surprised. I’m not upset, Louis, I want you to go, I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“I’ve got to start over, mom,” Louis said, his voice low. “I can’t hide here forever, and that’s what I’ve been doing.” 

“We’ll support you no matter what,” Jay told him gently. “We’ll help you go back to school.” 

“Thank you,” Louis’ voice broke, and Harry’s hands shook. He was an intruder on this moment, afraid to make his presence known. 

“You’ll stay for Christmas?” Jay asked, pulling a laugh out of Louis.

“Yeah, mom, I’ll stay for Christmas.” 

Jay nodded, and rose from her chair. Harry followed suit, taking some paper napkins off the table and moving to clean up Doris’ spilled soup. He was on his hands and knees under the table, wiping up splatters of tomato when he heard Jay ask, “You’ll live with Harry?” 

Harry straightened his back reflexively, and slammed his head into the bottom of the table, sending another bowl of soup rattling off the edge and splashing to the floor. Louis ducked down to meet his gaze underneath the table. 

“Alright down there?” he asked, his eyes sparkling mirthfully. 

“I guess that answers my question,” Jay commented.

Louis laughed, and straightened up without waiting for Harry’s response. 

“I’m not going to find myself here, mom,” Louis said softly. “I need to go home. This hasn’t been home in a long time.”

Jay didn’t respond immediately, and when she spoke, her voice was thick with tears. “I hope you know that I never stopped loving you, Louis. Not when you left, not when you came out, never.” 

“I know,” Louis’ voice was impossibly soft. “It isn’t your fault. It was never you.” 

Harry heard fabric rustling, and he assumed they were hugging. He dabbed idly at a spot on the floor, feeling awkward and intrusive. 

“What have you gotten your sisters for Christmas, then?” Jay asked, and Harry heaved a sigh of relief at the change of subject. He crawled out from under the table and rubbed idly at the newly forming bump on the back of his head. Louis and Jay chatted about holiday plans, and Harry was content just to listen as the three of them finished cleaning up the dining room. 

Jay left the dirty dishes in the sink and went up to bed, but not before giving both Harry and Louis a warm hug. They washed the dishes, Harry washing and Louis drying, and Harry wiped down the countertops. The chores done, they stood in the kitchen, each waiting for the other to say something. After an interminable moment of silence, Harry turned to go to his room. Louis didn’t follow him. 

Harry paused at the hall door and turned over his shoulder to look at Louis. He was standing by the stairs, his hand was resting on the lightswitch, his expression unreadable. The warm light from the ceiling fixture cast shadows on Louis’ face, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones. Harry smiled at him, soft and slow and familiar, and Louis’ eyes settled heavily on Harry’s face, a slight frown pulling between his eyebrows. 

After a long moment, Louis smiled back, tight and guarded, but still a smile. Harry rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, satisfied, and turned away. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” Louis said. 

“Goodnight, Louis,” Harry replied. 

Louis turned off the light.  


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

> ORPHEUS: How will you remember?  
>  _EURYDICE: That I love you?  
>  _ ORPHEUS: Yes.  
>  _EURYDICE: That’s easy. I can’t help it._
> 
>                     —  **Sarah Ruhl** , from “Eurydice”

 

* * *

 

 

 **JANUARY, 1986  
** **NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

 

 

It was cold in New York. Harry shivered in his wool coat, and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. He shifted his weight back and forth, trying to stimulate circulation and bring warmth back into his extremities. They had stopped on what seemed to be the draftiest street corner in New York, but Louis seemed unperturbed by the cold. That was a new thing about Louis. According to multiple physicians, it was most likely nerve damage, and it was likely to be permanent. Probably.

There were a lot of likely and probable things about Louis these days, and aside from Harry having to remind Louis that frostbite was a real thing that could happen if he wasn’t careful, they weren’t too difficult to adjust to. They’d started mocking it, every time a doctor said _it’s most likely_ or _chances are,_ Harry and Louis would exchange a look between them before nodding sagely at the medical expert in front of them speaking in hyperbole. Sometimes, the _maybe_ felt more like a _definitely,_ but other times, Louis would remember something innocuous.

Now, for example. Louis had stopped on a street corner, and was staring expectantly into the middle distance as though he expected the memory to come walking around the corner in brogues and a hat and offer itself to Louis. Harry knew what was relevant about this particular street corner, and it made sense for Louis to have stopped, but it was fucking cold.

“What’s here?” Louis finally asked, his voice muffled by his heavy wool scarf.

Harry licked his lips. They were chapped by the cold, and he recoiled slightly. “There’s a flower shop around the corner.”

“What did I do there?”

“Bought me roses there once,” Harry said vaguely. “Might’ve also blown me in the alley behind it.”

“Might’ve?” Louis wrinkled his nose and turned an inquisitive glance towards Harry.

“Probably,” Harry shrugged.

“And to think you used to be so worried about false memories,” Louis scoffed. “All for show, that was.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, his breath forming crystals on his scarf. “Can we get moving again? I can’t feel my calves.”

“Sure,” Louis said easily, and he waited for Harry to lead the way.

At Louis’ request, they were walking more places since moving back to New York. He hoped spending time in his neighborhood would stimulate his memories and bring his entire life back to him. It was wishful thinking, but Harry wasn’t going to argue that point. Louis had yet to remember anything substantial, yet on rare occasion, he would freeze, like he had just stuck a push-pin in his mental map, and he would look to Harry for clarification. Most times it was nothing, but every so often, Louis would tense up, and Harry would almost cry with relief as he recognized a bar or a bench or a food cart where they had spent time.

Louis was still detached with Harry, as though he knew Harry was important to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to treat him that way. Harry knew the lack of familiarity was to be expected, but sometimes he ached for the casual intimacy he had so come to expect from Louis before. He was patient, but most of the time, he yearned.

There were two versions of Louis in Harry’s mind, Louis before, and Louis after, and every day the lines grew more and more defined, and Louis grew more and more confused by the life he seemed to have lived. He was trying to fit six years into as many weeks, and Harry could see his growing irritation at the lack of progress being made. Louis before could never remember birthdays, anniversaries, middle names, assignments, or library books, but he had always remembered the important things. Louis after was focused on remembering these little things, asking Harry for Niall’s birthday over and over again, like he was working on flashcards, memorizing his old life like a stranger who expected to be quizzed on it.

Today, they were returning to their apartment for the first time since the accident. They’d been staying with their college friend Zayn since Christmas, mostly because Harry didn’t think he could stand being alone with Louis in their apartment when they were practically strangers, when both of their names were on the lease and there was only one bedroom, one bed, _their_ bed. But it was home, and they needed to go back. Louis had remembered meeting Zayn, but that was as far as his memory extended. Zayn had been patient with Louis' constant questions, but he'd seemed relieved when Harry said they were leaving. 

They were only a block away now, and Louis seemed to sense the nervous energy building in Harry. He quickened his pace, falling into step with Harry’s long strides. Just beyond them, their building loomed like a fortress, snow banked along the front of it, the silhouette of a doorman barely visible through the wintery gray haze in the air. Louis exhaled like he’d been dragging on a cigarette, his warm breath dissipating quickly.

“Is this it?” he paused in front of their building.

Harry murmured a confirmation and smiled politely at the doorman. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in the man’s face as he eyed Harry’s ID and stepped back to hold the door open for them. The lobby was warm, almost too warm, and Harry immediately felt a cold sweat break out beneath his many layers. His stomach roiled as Louis took a cursory glance around, his lips tight. He didn’t remember.

Neither of them spoke as Harry turned towards the staircase and started climbing the three flights to get to their apartment. He was sweating profusely by the time they reached the third floor, and Louis wasn’t faring much better. Harry fumbled his key, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t make it slide into the lock. Louis reached out and gently touched Harry’s knuckle, making him start violently and drop the key.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. “It’s just...a lot.”

“I know,” Louis said as he bent to retrieve the key. He stepped into Harry’s space and fit the key into the door. His hands were steady.

The door swung open with a squeal, and Harry felt all the oxygen leave his body. Louis led the way in, his resolve strung tightly if the tension in his shoulders was any indication. There was nothing to do but follow him. Harry closed the door behind them, and it shut with a solid thud.

Louis wandered through the apartment, only making mention of the thin layer of dust covering every surface. Harry’s heart was racing, and it felt as if he was remembering this place for the first time, too. The living room sofa was movie nights and long talks about music and work and the economy, the kitchen table was cups of tea and pans of brownies, the hall was quiet kisses and the gentle susurrus of fabric as they undressed each other on the way to the bedroom. The whole apartment was full of Louis. Full of them.

Harry followed Louis, hesitating only slightly when he came to the bedroom. Louis forged ahead, flicking on the light and surmising the space. There was nothing to be read in Louis’ expression as headed into the bathroom, while Harry elected to stay behind and settle himself onto the bed. He sat down on his side of the bed and reached into his nightstand drawer for a hair tie. In the bathroom, the shower curtain was pulled back and a shampoo bottle hit the ground. Harry rolled his eyes fondly, a knee jerk reaction, and was pulling his hair into a ponytail when he heard the jagged catch of Louis’ breath. He turned, arms still raised, hair tie between his teeth, to see what had given Louis pause.

“I remember you there,” Louis said quietly, and Harry’s pulse roared in his ears. “I’ve seen you before.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He finished pulling his hair into a bun and rested his hands on his lap. It was a very long time before Louis spoke again.

“Is that where you sleep?”

“This is where we sleep,” Harry replied, his voice thick with tears. “Slept.”

“Harry,” Louis voice was soft and tremulous. “I didn’t die.”

A sob stuck in Harry’s throat at that. “Only almost.”

“I may not have died, but I still left you,” Louis said, and the weight behind his words forced Harry to his feet.

“What?” Harry gasped, tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks.

“Feels like I died, didn’t it?” Louis shrugged casually. “I’m a stranger in my own apartment. You used to live here with your lover, and I’m just a man with his name, wondering where the hell his toothbrush is.”

“In the drawer,” Harry whispered. “Mine is in the cup.”

“Your toothbrush is pink?”

“Yeah,” Harry folded his arms over his chest and bit down hard on his lower lip. “Has been since college. You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can’t ask you why you have a pink toothbrush?” there was amusement creeping into Louis’ tone, but Harry wasn’t laughing.

“No,” Harry floundered for words. “You can’t talk about it like that. You can’t.”

“It didn’t almost happen to you, Harry,” Louis said sharply.

“Louis,” Harry stopped him. “Louis, you never left me. Even if you’d died you wouldn’t have left me. I’ve been losing my mind since we stepped in the door, everything in this apartment reminds me of you and us and even if you’d died I wouldn’t have forgotten you. You _leaving me_ wasn’t the issue. It never has been. When you die, you’re gone. If you die, you didn’t choose to leave me, you were taken from me, and you didn’t die, but that’s exactly what happened.”

Louis was quiet.

“I can’t imagine me without you,” Harry admitted. “While you were in surgery I begged the nurses to make sure you came out, as if they had anything to do with it, I begged your surgeon, I begged God, anyone who would listen, to get you out of that operating room alive. There just isn’t any me without you. You’re part of me, unless you leave me, because leaving me means it’s what you wanted. But I couldn’t let you be taken away from me. Not like that.”

“You pray?” Louis asked, his eyes falling to the cross around Harry’s neck.

“No, I don’t,” Harry said flatly. “But I did for you.”

“Harry,” Louis took a step towards him, his face apologetic.  
  
“No,” Harry said firmly, his tone stopping Louis in his tracks. “Let me finish. You’re making jokes about it because you think it isn’t worth it to me. You think I’m going to get tired of this person with your face who doesn’t remember me, who won’t sleep with me, and I’m going to let you fend for yourself. You think I’m going to get you back for forgetting me. I couldn’t bear it, Louis. I couldn’t bear the idea of you being taken away from me before...” Harry swallowed hard, hysteria building in his chest like an electrical current. _Before you married me._ “Before it was time.”

Louis sat down on the edge of the bed. His mouth was a grim line, and his expression was carefully blank.

“If you’d had any say in the matter, you wouldn’t have forgotten me at all,” Harry stated. “And even if you don’t remember what my degree is in, that doesn’t mean I’m going to just...forget you back. If you don’t think you can fall in love with me again, fine. You can have your own apartment and your own bank account. We’ll figure that out. But it’s been you and me since I was eighteen, Louis, and I can’t—“ Harry’s voice broke, and Louis leapt to his feet.  
  
“Hey,” Louis said. “I understand.”

Harry nodded tightly, his arms still wrapped around himself. He was crying softly, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in sobs.

“Music performance,” Louis murmured after a moment.     

“What?” Harry looked up, his eyes burning with tears.  
  
“Your degree,” Louis clarified. “Is in music performance. With a specialty in vocal and guitar. It’s hanging on the wall in the living room.”

Harry laughed weakly and let his arms fall by his side. “It’s next to yours.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, a smile creasing his eyes. “Right where it should be.”

At that, Harry couldn’t hold himself up any longer. He folded his body into Louis’, slotting himself against him, his cheek on Louis’ shoulder, his forehead against Louis’ neck. After a long moment, Louis’ body quivered with sobs of his own, and Harry wrapped his arms around Louis waist and held him until he stopped shaking.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Is he really dying?” 

They were standing outside Niall’s apartment building, their necks craned skyward, snowflakes landing on their faces and running down their necks in melted rivulets. Louis’ voice was deadened by the heavy winter air. He turned to look at Harry, and the melted snow on his face looked like tears. 

“Yes,” Harry said quietly. 

“Dying?” 

“Yes, Louis,” Harry repeated gently. “There isn’t much they can do.” 

“I forgot his life,” Louis said, his face blank. “And now I have to watch him die.”

Harry blanched. He never knew what to say when Louis made morbid comments, and Louis made it clear he didn’t expect a response, but Harry still struggled in the face of them. They’d been planning to visit Niall for a while now, but Louis’ therapist had suggested they wait until he was settled into the city before throwing something like a terminally ill friend into the forefront of his mind. 

Now, Louis could navigate his way around their apartment without asking where things were, and he could walk himself to the subway station and not get lost on aforementioned subway. Harry had deemed him ready, and Louis had merely shrugged when Harry suggested a visit to Niall. So here they were. Standing outside in the snow, waiting for Niall to come down so they could go to the hospital. 

Harry was more worried about Louis being back in a hospital than anything else. 

The door to the building opened, pulling Harry out of his thoughts, and his arms were suddenly full of Niall. There was shouting and crying and Harry felt Niall clutching at him, his fingers digging into his shoulders even through Harry’s many layers. He held him, slowly rocking him back and forth as the snow fell and Niall mumbled things into Harry’s coat. 

“I missed you, too,” Harry said, casting his eyes anywhere but at Louis’ face. “How’ve you been?” 

Niall pulled away from him then, his eyes glassy and nose red, but he smiled. “Doesn’t matter. I’m better now.” 

Harry cast a cursory glance at Louis, who had been watching the scene unfold with fond bemusement. Before he could make any introductions, Louis had stepped up to Niall and held out his hand. 

“I’m Louis,” he said. 

Niall’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. “I’m Niall,” he replied, shaking Louis’ hand firmly. “I’m Harry’s friend.” 

“So am I,” Louis supplied. 

The corner of Niall’s mouth turned up into a smile. Harry released the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. 

Upon some silent agreement, the three of them moved as one and began to trudge through the snow, heading toward the subway station Harry and Louis had just come from. They didn’t talk; it was too cold for idle conversation. When they were safely inside the drafty subway station and through the turnstiles, Harry unwrapped the scarf from his face and blew out an irritated breath. 

They were the only ones on the platform, save the rats running back and forth across the tracks, so they took this opportunity to resituate their snow laden garments. Harry shook the ice off his scarf and flipped his head upside down to shake the slowly melting snowflakes out. 

Louis smiled faintly at Harry’s dramatics as he shook the melted snow out of his own hair, and Niall rolled his eyes as he stamped off his boots. Their train was just pulling into the station as they hurriedly rewrapped themselves, cheeks still red from the wind and fingers aching from the cold. The doors slid open, and Niall jumped in, grabbing onto a pole and dropping his bag to the ground. Harry followed at a more sedate pace, his body still chilled and slow, but Louis was standing still, staring at the side of the subway car. 

There was a red handprint, vivid and fresh, slightly smeared, the paint frozen in rivulets. Harry felt colder, suddenly, and he reached out for Louis’ arm. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “They’ll leave you here.”

Louis pulled away from Harry’s guiding hand, but he stepped into the car. 

“What does it mean?” he asked, when the train had pulled away from the station with a lurch. 

“People are dying,” Niall said. 

“But not us,” Louis said. 

Harry cleared his throat and wrapped his scarf a little tighter. Niall fixed Louis with a level look, his expression unreadable. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Niall said. “Nothing this terrible ever does.” 

The rest of the ride was quiet, with Louis staring at the floor and Harry staring at Louis. They didn’t speak again until they were coming up to the door of the hospital and Niall said, “Don’t ask him about his hair.”

Harry and Louis exchanged a look, but they followed Niall into the hospital, past the desk, and into the ward. There was a sign on the door stating the contamination risk, and Harry’s stomach roiled. 

They went to a curtained area at the very back of the room, doing their best to ignore the coughing and crying and smell of disinfectant that permeated the air. Niall pulled back the curtain, and Louis staggered backwards.

“Liam,” he said.

Liam was pale and drawn, his hair shaved close to his scalp, but when Louis said his name, his face lit up, like the sun coming out, and Harry forgot to be horrified by Liam’s buzz cut. 

“Louis,” he said warmly, pushing himself into a sitting position. The effort seemed Herculean, and Louis watched in confusion as Niall set his mouth in a grim line and didn’t make any move to help him. 

Only Harry seemed to recognize the enormity of the situation. 

“Louis,” he said carefully. “How did you know his name?” 

Liam frowned, and Niall was glaring daggers at Harry, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Louis looked a little shell shocked, but he murmured, “I remembered it.” 

Harry wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all, but he smiled tightly and looked at Liam. “You’re a lucky man. He doesn’t go around remembering just anyone these days.” 

Liam laughed lightly, and reached out for Louis, who went to him and settled on the edge of his bed. They spent hours in that hospital room, Louis and Liam talking and laughing, and it felt like regaining a sense of normalcy they’d long been without. Harry took mental stock of every detail Louis was able to add to his conversation with Liam, memories from college, inside jokes, Liam’s parents, even details about Niall, which brought a pleased smile to the other man’s face. 

Harry had to keep reminding himself that remembering was subjective. Louis wasn’t remembering things accurately, but Harry wasn’t sure if his memories were pristine, either. There were some blanks he couldn’t fill in, some details he himself had forgotten or remembered incorrectly. 

Some things had been easier for Louis to remember, like music, which seemed like a part of him, and it came back to him as easily as breathing. His hands were already dancing over a piano, like shaking hands with an old friend, and now here he was with an old friend, holding his hand and laughing at anecdotes like he’d never left. Like he’d never forgotten. 

They stayed until a nurse ushered them out, Louis and Liam crying and hugging and promising future visits. Something about Louis seemed off the whole way home, and it only worsened when they said goodbye to Niall at the subway station. Harry was locking the front door behind them when Louis spoke. 

“I’m sorry it wasn’t you.”

Harry slumped against the front door. “Don’t.”

“I’m glad I remembered him,” Louis continued. “He deserves it. But I’m sorry it wasn’t you.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m going to bed.” 

He stalked into the bedroom, irritation thrumming under his skin. Harry braided his hair, pulled on a t-shirt, and settled himself onto his side of the bed, willing the air of unease to go away. He wrapped himself in the comforter and pressed his face into the pillow. He heard Louis come in and get ready for bed, and when the mattress dipped beneath his weight, the breath caught in Harry’s throat. When Louis’ hand came to rest on Harry’s shoulder, tears smarted in his eyes. 

He was pliant in Louis’ grip, and he let himself be rolled onto his back when Louis pulled him. There was a sympathetic look on Louis’ face that Harry absolutely detested, and he furiously blinked away his tears, which only made them well up and roll out of his eyes slowly, and Louis frowned. He wiped them away carefully, and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. 

Agreeing to share the bed had been a bad idea. 

Harry lay still and let Louis look at him, tense under his ministrations, and he felt it when the intent changed. His blood turned to ice in his veins as Louis’ hands traveled down his torso, his knuckles brushing against the skin of his abdomen. 

Louis thumbed at Harry’s hip bones, gripping him tightly, possessively, and Harry ached with want. It had been so long since anybody had touched him. It had been so long since Harry had felt wanted. At this moment, Louis was looking at him the way he used to, his eyes dark and his mouth set in a line, like he wanted to take Harry apart and not put him back together. 

Harry’s entire body felt weak. 

There were hands under his shirt, rucking it up under his arms, and then Louis’ hands were on his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. Harry’s hands went to Louis’ waist immediately, like an instinct, and Louis gave an approving tug to Harry’s hair. 

Harry was just pulling down Louis’ pajama pants when he woke up. 

He was sweaty, and hard, and he felt seconds away from full blown hysteria. All of a sudden, he became hyper aware of the tears on his cheeks and Louis’ tense, obviously awake presence in the bed beside him. His hips undulated up against the blanket almost subconsciously, and he whimpered as he tried to stop himself crying, stop wanting, just stop. 

“Harry,” Louis said, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re crying.”

“M’sorry,” Harry gasped reaching up to wipe away tears and sweat. “I was dreaming.” 

“About me,” Louis stated. 

“Sorry,” Harry whispered again as he focused all his energy on not being hard anymore. 

“Don’t be,” Louis murmured, and his tone was heavy with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “What did you dream?”

“If I tell you, I’ll…” Harry took a deep breath and threw off the blankets. He was too warm, and every nerve in his body was alive with pinpricks of arousal and humiliation and that same deep, burning sadness that seemed to never go away. 

“Harry,” Louis’ voice was pitched low, a steady rumble in the nighttime quiet of the room. “I know.” 

Harry bit down on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Did you dream I was touching you?”

“No,” Harry lied. 

“You were touching me?”

This was cruel and unusual punishment. He was still dreaming, except this time it was a nightmare. Harry was a pathetic, quivering mess, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to put his mouth on Louis. 

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” Harry said, pushing himself into a sitting position. 

“Why not?” Louis was still lying on his side of the bed, his limbs akimbo and his eyes focused on the ceiling. “Are you afraid you’ll come?”

A sound punched out of Harry at that, a tortured sort of moan. 

There was a smile in Louis’ voice when he continued, “A bit old to be jizzing in our pants like high schoolers, aren’t we?”

“It’s been months, Louis,” Harry snapped. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Louis repeated. He reached across the bed to touch Harry, and Harry shivered as Louis’ fingers brushed the sweaty fabric of his t-shirt, his hand skimming along his shoulder blades. 

He bit back a  _ “Please,”  _ and forced himself to his feet. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Alright,” Louis said, his tone flat. “Have fun.” 

Harry wrapped himself in the comforter and went into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, refusing to let himself cry until the water was running. Dropping the comforter, he reached for the faucet and turned it on, releasing a gasping sob as the pipes whined to life. He stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to run hot, and he cried as it chilled his skin and sent shivers throughout his entire body. 

His head was stuffed up and his skin was hot, and when the water ran warm he sank to the floor of the tub and pulled his knees to his chest, not crying anymore, but still hiccuping and shuddering out wet breaths. 

Louis was still in the bedroom, and Harry was going to have to deal with it eventually, but for now, the hot water was beating down on his back, and he was doing his best to feel better. 

The hot water ran out, and the bad feeling stayed. 


	10. Chapter 10

They had been in New York for over a month when Harry cut his hair. It was a rainy morning in late February, and Harry had caught his ring on a tangle while readying himself for the day, and he’d decided it was time. He sailed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen with a smile on his face, earning a raised eyebrow from Louis. Harry poured himself a cup of coffee, asked if he could borrow Louis’ umbrella, and walked out the front door with his mind set and his goals clear. 

When they’d come back, Harry had applied for jobs like it was going out of style, and he’d found one, teaching music at a private high school in the East Village. Louis had been offered his old job, and had accepted on the condition his hours be reduced, which left him working Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the occasional Friday, on the opposite end of the city from Harry. They worked different schedules and commuted in different directions, but it didn’t matter. 

“We’re both music teachers, Louis,” Harry’d said when Louis had gotten the call, and Louis had rolled his eyes, but he’d been smiling when he muttered, “I had the idea first.” 

Harry’s commute from their apartment to his job was a beastly half hour on the uptown train, and he would clutch his cooling coffee to his chest and hum to himself as the stations went by the window of the subway car. Sometimes he would people watch, marveling at the young professionals making their commutes in high heels and three piece suits, and the families with their multitudinous children dressed in play clothes or school uniforms, standing obediently by their parents as they carried their lunchboxes close to their bodies and made faces at each other when they thought nobody was looking. 

This particular morning, he was too preoccupied to notice anyone else on the train. He weaved his way through the crowded platform and hurried out of the subway, inhaling sharply as the bitingly cold New York air hit his skin. Harry jogged the last few blocks to the school, took the front steps two at a time, and blew into his supervisor’s office with a flurry of cold air and panted breaths, coming to a halt in front of his desk. 

His supervisor, a mild mannered elderly man with bifocals and a bushy mustache, blinked up at him in surprise. “May I help you, Mr. Styles?” 

Harry laughed softly and grinned down at him. “Morning, Rod. I need to take a long lunch today.” 

“Any special reason?” Rod asked, pulling out the class roster and a copy of the schedule. 

“Haircut,” Harry stated. “Getting a trim.”

“A trim of about eight or nine inches, I hope,” Rod commented dryly. He scowled down at the small print of the schedule, then shrugged. “You don’t have choir until three this afternoon, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Harry was already leaving the office, calling a thank you over his shoulder as he went to his classroom, humming under his breath all the while. The good feeling stayed with him all day, even as he clocked out for lunch and hailed a taxi. 

He came out of the barber shop feeling ten pounds lighter. In his hand he clutched a paper bag containing the ponytail that had been severed, and he shook out his jumbled curls, now shorter and tickling at his ear, but still long enough to fall over his forehead. Harry felt warm inside. He prided himself on embracing this change, on letting something go. It felt good. 

However, as prepared as Harry had been for the haircut itself, he’d neglected to brace himself for the onslaught of surprised stares and shocked comments he received when he returned to work after lunch. Rod had rolled his eyes and murmured, “I was joking,” but he smiled all the same. Harry had a difficult time getting his afternoon choir class to focus. Most of them had seen him that morning with a full head of shoulder length hair, and the surprised chatter seemed to flow endlessly. It was one of the longest afternoons of Harry’s life. 

The commute home seemed interminable, but Harry couldn’t shake his good mood. Not even the steady drizzle of rain that made dirty puddles in the street and ruined his suede shoes could dampen his spirits. He climbed the stairs to the apartment with a renewed spring in his step. He found himself anxious for Louis’ opinion, and his hands shook slightly as he unlocked the door.  
  
Harry opened the door, leading with his still dripping umbrella. He was lost in thought, humming under his breath as he dropped the umbrella into the stand and turned to hang up his coat. With a start, he noticed Louis, standing just inside the hall doorway. He made a surprised sound and dropped his coat. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Harry asked, doing his best to ignore his rabbiting pulse. 

Louis was silent, eerily so, and Harry’s concern mounted.

“Louis?” 

“What were the first words you ever said to me?” Louis asked. His tone was level, almost detached, and his face was blank. 

Harry hesitated. “I don’t-“

“Harry,” Louis interrupted. “What was the first thing you ever said to me?”

There was something terrifying about his demeanor, the controlled tone of his voice, the lack of emotion visible in his body, and Harry was nervous.

“I made a joke or something, I don’t know,” Harry muttered weakly. He remembered, of course he did. Louis was at the bar, twirling a cocktail umbrella between two fingers, his wrist delicate and his legs crossed at the ankle. Harry was a knock kneed boy of 17, thin and underage and very closeted, only in the bar by the grace of God and in no position to be trying to pick up a boy, but when Louis shifted in his seat and tossed his head in an attempt to shake his fringe out of his eyes, something had pulled Harry towards him. He’d gone up to Louis, stepped into his personal space, and said-

“May I have your umbrella?” Louis’ voice cut through the silence.

All the air went out of Harry’s lungs.

“Louis-“ 

“You asked me this morning,” Louis murmured. “If you could have my umbrella.”

Harry’s voice broke as he exhaled a sound, a pained little, “Oh.”

“I remembered you,” Louis was looking out the window, his brow drawn and his mouth turned down at the corners. “I remembered you as a skinny little boy, standing in between my legs and trying to get me to buy him alcohol when I couldn’t even buy it for myself. I remember wanting you. And for about five seconds I remembered exactly how it felt to be so, so in love with you.” 

Louis looked up at him then, his face carefully impassive. 

“Is it still raining?”

“Yes,” Harry managed. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. 

“I really did love you, didn’t I?” Louis asked, almost absently. He was drawn in on himself, his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed. 

“I think so,” Harry whispered. “You used to tell me you did. All the time.” 

Louis’ frown deepened at that, and Harry’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“It feels big,” Louis said, finally. “It feels like the most massive thing. Like if I remember how it felt, there won’t be room in my brain for anything else.”

Harry felt like he’d been running a marathon. He was breathless and shaky, his vision swimming. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I miss it,” Louis murmured, the  _ you  _ going unsaid. “I feel like I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been.” 

Louis took a cautious step towards him, and then all at once he was in Harry’s space, his body warm and familiar, and Harry clenched his fists. One of Louis’ hands came to rest on Harry’s shoulder, and the other reached into his shirt and pulled on the chain that held Harry’s cross. Their rings thudded gently against his breastbone when Louis released the necklace on the outside of Harry’s shirt and let it fall against him. 

“I might fall in love with you without remembering you,” Louis confessed, his tone low and earnest. “I don’t think I could help myself, knowing how loving you must’ve felt.”

Harry’s pulse pounded in his ears.

“Did you love me?”

“Yes,” Harry said immediately. “Yes, fuck, I did. I do. You used to tease me and say that if I loved you any more than I already did, I was going to run out of room.” 

Louis’ mouth curled into a soft smile at that. “Where do you keep all of it?” 

Without thinking, Harry reached down and took Louis’ wrist in his hand. He guided Louis’ hand to the other side of his chest, where his heartbeat pounded against his skin, beating a frantic tattoo of want and anxiety and anticipation. Louis pressed his palm flat to Harry’s flushed skin.

“I think I could love you, Harry Styles.”

Louis’ palms against his chest were like searing brands, and Harry felt warm from the inside out. “I know you can.” 

Louis laughed lightly at that. It was quiet for a brief pause, and then he said, “You got a haircut.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. 

“I like it,” Louis leaned back, his hands still on Harry’s chest, and surmised Harry’s appearance. “It suits you.” 

“Thank you,” Harry murmured, flushing slightly. 

“Any special reason for it?” Louis’ hands fell to his sides, and Harry missed him immediately. 

He shrugged. “Just wanted something a little bit different.” 

Louis eyed him strangely, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he reached out to Harry and pulled him into a tight hug.

Harry smiled into Louis’ neck. 

It had been a good day. 


	11. Chapter 11

Louis remembered everything on a Tuesday. Harry didn’t find out until Wednesday.

It was an accident, a trauma memory, triggered by Harry’s bad sense of direction and inability to shake old habits. Reacquainting Louis with the city had been strange. Harry had showed him all of their old haunts, taken all of the same subway routes, walking paths, and shortcuts he and Louis had made routine of before. Sometimes it felt like he was saying _here. Here is where you used to love me._

Harry had taken Louis back to what used to be their favorite bakery, and they were walking home, Louis still chewing on a bear claw and complaining to Harry about his failure to take him there sooner. They were laughing and shoving at each other playfully when they rounded a corner, and Harry felt his blood run cold.

Louis stood still, frozen, his mouth open, his arms limp by his sides.

Of all the places Harry would have wished for Louis to remember, this was not one of them.

Force of habit had taken him down a path that used to be safe, a shortcut through an alley belonging to two restaurants known for their diverse clientele. Harry had accidentally brought them back to where it had happened.

It looked different, somehow, sharper in relief as compared to the rest of the city, and Harry found himself staring at the spot on the concrete where -

“What happened here?” Louis asked.

“You know,” Harry whispered. “Louis.”

“I don’t,” Louis was floundering for a word, his skin ashen and his hands trembling. He didn’t speak again. Instead, he turned and left, leaving Harry standing in a patch of sunlight in the empty alley.

After a stunned moment, Harry collected himself enough to follow a still silent Louis to the subway, down the sidewalk, and up the stairs to their apartment. The tense quiet between them stretched on all evening, through awkward pauses and aborted questions and a very uncomfortable dinner that involved Louis holding the newspaper between them like a shield while Harry quietly ate his soup. Louis didn’t even read the newspaper, and Harry hated being ignored, but he withstood it. He could feel the sick anxiety rolling off Louis in waves, and he wished he could just ask him how he was feeling, what he was thinking, but he didn’t dare. The newspaper was only one of the walls Louis had put up this afternoon.

After so many hours of silence, Harry jumped at the sound of Louis’ voice, and it took him a long moment to realize he was being addressed. Harry looked up at Louis and saw he was still pale when he found Harry’s eyes across the dining room table and said, “I think I need to see my therapist.”

Harry nodded. Louis looked back down at the paper. Harry sighed, cleared his plate, and went to bed. It was nearly morning when a nightmare woke him up, heart racing and sweat sticky on his warm skin. He reached out for Louis instinctively, and found an empty bed. With a groan, Harry dropped back onto his pillow and willed his heart to slow down. He didn’t go back to sleep.

When Louis came into their bedroom at dawn, his footsteps gentle on the wood floor and his movements dramatically slow and cautious in the name of being quiet, Harry feigned sleep. He listened to Louis move around the room, shifting hangers back and forth in the closet and running the sink at a trickle while he brushed his teeth.

His eyes were closed in a flimsy semblance of sleep when Louis crept to Harry’s side of the bed and pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple.

Harry waited for the front door of the apartment to close before he rolled over and pressed his face into Louis’ pillow. He cried until the sun was high in the sky and his head ached and his eyes burned and everything felt cottony and grey and awful. He was kicking himself for taking them back there, for bringing back this old version of Louis, the one who didn’t tease or smile or say ‘let me get that for you’ when Harry was struggling with something, or toss fond nicknames into conversation.

Bored of his pity party, Harry pulled his body out of bed and stumbled through his morning routine. It was his day off, unfortunately, and after forcing a bowl of cereal down, he found himself alone in an achingly empty apartment.

Louis’ usual appointments were early in the morning, and Harry had no reason to assume he would’ve scheduled even an impromptu one for a different time. They were both creatures of habit, Louis even more so after the incident.

Harry eyed the clock. Louis wasn’t due back from therapy for another forty five minutes. He had time. Harry set his mug down on the counter, and went to the music room.

The piano stood there, a formidable figure even in its disuse. He went to it, and opened the lid. It had been tuned right before they left, and with any luck, it would be in playing shape.

Harry pulled the bench out, and sat down. He played a few scales to warm up his fingers, and as he did, a song formed under his hands. Debussy’s _Reverie,_ his favorite piece from college. It reminded Harry of water, the way it ebbed and flowed, and as he played, it came back to him, almost painful in its familiarity.

He closed his eyes, letting himself visualize the music in front of him, the gentle traverse of the notes up the staff as his hands moved to accommodate it. In his mind he was 20, starving himself to get through college, and his stomach grumbled as he played the secondhand piano he shared with his lover, who was going to come home any minute and-

A strangled gasp jerked Harry out of his trance. He opened his eyes and saw Louis, pale and shaken, as if he’d just seen a ghost. Harry’s hands hovered over the keys, frozen in the final movement of the piece.

“Harry,” Louis choked.

“Louis,” Harry said, feeling something like hope begin to stir inside of him. “Do you-“

“Finish it,” Louis ordered.

Harry nodded slowly and fell back into it, moving through the last few measures as easily as breathing, even with his hands trembling as badly as they were. As he played, Louis came into the room, moving slowly towards the piano.

When Harry played the final chord and his foot came off the sustain pedal, Louis’ hand was there, gently touching the crease of Harry’s elbow.

“I was right,” Louis said, after a brief moment.

“About what?” Harry looked up at him, feeling shaky and scared and _hopeful_.

“It does feel big,” Louis didn’t look up from where his hand lay on Harry’s arm. “Loving you, I mean. It feels like the most important thing I’ll ever do. It makes me feel like I can do anything.”

Harry’s heart stammered to a stop. Louis had always been loving, even when he didn’t know Harry, he was attentive and demonstrative, with careful smiles and murmured affirmations so gentle and heartfelt that Harry would tear up at each one. There was more than enough love inside Louis to go around, more than enough for Harry and for everyone else, but there was something selfish in Harry that felt warm at Louis’ words, and he delighted in knowing that there was a special place in Louis’ heart just for Harry. It felt to Harry like a homecoming, like finally belonging.

“And you’re a liar,” Louis said, shaking Harry out of his reverie.

“What?” Harry breathed, barely an exhale, tears already burning in his eyes. The air between them seemed to quiver, the stillness almost palpable, and Harry couldn’t stand it.

“When you told me about us you said that you said I love you first,” Louis brought his hand up to cup Harry’s chin. “Which isn’t true.”

“No,” Harry mumbled, tears rolling down his cheeks unbidden. “It isn’t true.”

Louis leaned into Harry’s space, cigarette smoke heavy on his breath and stubble sharp on the skin of Harry’s chin as he whispered into his ear, “Did you do it on purpose?”

Harry nodded almost imperceptibly, his chest tight.

Louis turned his face slightly and pressed a kiss to the place where Harry’s jaw hinged, then to his cheekbone, and then, finally, with Harry’s pulse thundering in his ears, Louis kissed him on the mouth.

When Harry was nineteen years old, Louis had crawled into Harry’s bed. It wasn’t the first time he had been there, and Harry let his legs fall open to make room for him, but Louis didn’t crawl between them, and he didn’t settle his body onto Harry’s, and he didn’t try to kiss him. That was strange, but when Harry sat up and realized that Louis was cold sober, something twisted inside him.

“Louis?” he asked quietly, and Louis hushed him.

Harry lay back on his pillows and listened to Louis breathe, and it sounded like panic. He didn’t understand why, but he knew better than to force the issue. Louis would talk when he was ready, and all Harry could do was listen to his sharp, irregular breaths and wait.

“I don’t want to have sex anymore,” Louis said. “I don’t think it’s fair to you.”

Harry’s eyes never left the ceiling. Outside, there was someone laying on their horn, and someone else was screaming, and a dog was barking, and their neighbors upstairs were having a fight, complete with door slamming and name calling and threats of divorce. Somewhere inside all that chaos, Harry could’ve sworn he heard something inside his chest crack, but it could’ve just been a sob catching in his throat.

“Alright, Louis,” Harry said evenly.

“I just don’t want to hurt you, you know what I mean?” Louis said agitatedly.

Harry tried to force himself to keep breathing. “No, I don’t.”

“I don’t want to fuck you because I’m in love with you,” Louis said plainly. “I love you.”

Harry forgot about breathing. “Oh.”

“Is that it?” Louis said, his voice timid and almost inaudible. “Oh?”

“I didn’t think that’s what you were going to say,” Harry said.

Louis was quiet. Their upstairs neighbors had stopped fighting and moved on to something else.

“I always thought I would say it first,” Harry continued, and then Louis was on top of him, pressing him down into the bed and kissing him, deep and hot, grinning against Harry’s mouth, and Harry wrapped his legs around Louis’ waist to keep him there for as long as he could.

That was the first time either of them had said it, and Louis never stopped saying it, not while he undressed Harry or fingered him open or slurred it into his collarbones as he lay there with Harry panting and blissed out underneath him. Harry echoed it every time, in a moan or a punched out gasp or a whimper or a sleepy murmur, and that was how it went from then on.

Harry never thought Louis would stop saying it. He couldn’t imagine a world where it wasn’t being called over his shoulder absently or tacked onto a sentence or exhaled into the post-coital quiet of their bedroom, and he didn’t realize how much he had missed the sound of it until he heard it again, and it hit him like a freight train. Waves of missing Louis washed over him, and he let himself shake under the weight of the feeling.

“You remembered,” he whispered, and Louis kissed his chin.

“I remembered.”

“When?”

Louis pulled away slightly and looked at Harry. He reached up and pressed the pad of his thumb against the furrow in Harry’s brow, smoothing it out gently. He kissed the tip of Harry’s nose and smiled gently. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “After-”

“Yeah,” Louis pressed his forehead against Harry’s. The nearness of him made Harry feel warm from the inside out.

“Wasn’t it scary?” he pressed.

Louis laughed. “Not really. Kind of overwhelming, yeah, but not scary. It’s just something that happened.”

“That’s,” Harry wasn’t sure what to say. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry I ignored you last night,” Louis said.

“You don’t even read the newspaper,” Harry groused, and Louis laughed again.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Louis said sheepishly. “All of a sudden I remembered that I was madly in love and had been viciously attacked. It was a lot to keep up with. I might take it up, though. The cartoons aren’t half bad.”

“Shut up,” Harry huffed, pushing halfheartedly at Louis’ shoulder.

Louis pushed back at him, and then he kissed him again.

They stayed in the music room for a long while, with Harry straddling the piano bench, back arched as Louis kissed him deeply, his hands tangled in Harry’s curls. When Louis began crying, Harry stood up, pushing Louis’ body back against the piano, and touched him, running his hands up his arms and down his back, hooking his thumbs into his waistband and pulling Louis’ body flush to him as he murmured _I missed you_ into his hair, his ears, his mouth. Louis choked on a sob and swallowed his words, grabbing almost desperately at Harry’s back, catching on the planes of his shoulder blades and breathing heavily against Harry’s own tear-sticky cheeks.

“I love you,” Louis repeated, and Harry didn't echo it. He let it wash over him, let it settle into him, let himself remember how it sounded. Louis seemed to understand, and he repeated it, over and over again, until Harry felt dizzy and overwhelmed, and loved.

“I feel like,” Louis pressed a kiss to Harry’s mouth, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric of his shirt, and Harry opened his mouth to him, pliant and willing as Louis kissed him. He frowned when Louis pulled away, but stilled when he saw the look on his face. Louis was looking at him with wide eyes, something akin to amazement plain on his features. “I can finally stop looking.”

“Not homesick anymore?” Harry teased, his face flushed and clothes in disarray.

“No,” Louis recognized his own words and laughed softly. “Not anymore.”


	12. Chapter 12

 

> _:_ "Oh it's wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much." 
> 
> - **Frank O'Hara**  from _Steps_
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

**DECEMBER, 1986**

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

 

 

Niall’s music room hadn’t changed, even after a year and with all of Louis’ complaining, the piano still sat at the same odd angle, the bench towards the window, and his sheet music was still stacked haphazardly on the floor instead of filed and shelved. There were still no curtains on the big window, and sunlight still poured in, weak and light gold in the late afternoon.

They were all in Niall’s apartment, even Liam, who had tearfully admitted to Louis that he didn’t want to die alone in a hospital. Despite warnings from his doctors, Niall had immediately moved Liam to the guest room in his apartment, and Liam spent his days plunking away at the rehearsal piano in the dining room, smiling to himself as the music kept him company. He and NIall were there now, playing old songs and laughing at Liam’s fumbled playing. Liam had been a classical pianist before he fell ill, and it had taken some time for him to get to a place where he could laugh about his weak hands and spotty memory.

Louis didn’t think he would ever be able to laugh about it, but seeing Liam smile was worth a few pained chuckles here and there.

It had been almost a year since Harry and Louis had come home, and Niall had insisted they celebrate their nine month anniversary.

“That’s a full gestational period, Harry,” Niall had said seriously, and when he put it like that, Harry couldn’t refuse him. They’d come to his apartment and toasted champagne and made jokes about the old times, and it was good.

A little bit overwhelming, but good. Harry and Louis had gone to the music room after dinner, and Niall had left them alone with the sunset and his dusty baby grand.

Louis was quiet, his eyelids lowered and his hands gripping at Harry’s body almost painfully, his fingers digging into the softness of Harry’s hips. Harry wanted to kiss him again, wanted to kiss his spit slick mouth so badly he felt dizzy, and it was a long moment before he remembered that he could. He kissed Louis’ open mouth and brought his hands up to cradle his face. Harry’s thumbs gently brushed along the lines of Louis’ cheekbones, and the pads of his fingers hovered delicately over the scar behind Louis’ ear.

Sunlight was filtering through the large windows behind them, casting odd shadows on the hollows of Louis’ collarbones, and Harry watched particles of dust swirl around them. In the golden light they looked like tiny atoms landing on Louis’ hair and catching on his eyelashes. Harry felt warm right down to his very bones. Louis was gripping Harry’s waist, tight and warm and sure, and Harry was bursting from the inside out with the sheer immensity of what he felt.

They couldn’t possibly be here, standing next to this window, basking in tepid New York sunlight, knowing each other and holding each other with every point of contact searing brands into Harry’s skin. There was an entire lifetime between them, and this wasn’t the first time Harry had felt that way, but this time, it wasn’t stretching and yawning like a great chasm of separation; instead it was shared, patched up and filled in with exaggeration and sentiment and understanding. Louis looked at him knowingly, his eyes softer than the sunshine beaming down on them.

“I love you,” Harry whispered.

Louis tightened his grip on Harry, pressing down into his skin, and in the same movement, released him. He brought a hand up and hooked a finger through Harry’s necklace, pulling gently on the cross, willing Harry to bend to him. Louis pulled him slowly, his eyes on Harry’s mouth and the chain of the necklace digging sharply into Harry’s skin. It felt like an eternity before their mouths met again, and when Louis brought his hand up to curl around the back of Harry’s head, Harry felt the metal of Louis’ ring, warmed by his body, pressing against the bones of his neck. He whimpered into Louis’ mouth and took a step closer to him.

Louis pulled back slightly and pressed kisses to Harry’s chin, along his jaw, to his temple, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and he murmured, “I know you do,” into the shell of Harry’s ear.

They could hear Niall singing in the other room, something low and lilting and folksy, while Liam played something on the piano, stumbling over a note every so often, Niall holding his pitch true while he found his place, and something about that made Harry clench at the fabric of Louis’ t-shirt.

“Please don’t leave me again,” Harry whispered into the crook of Louis’ neck.

“Can’t promise you that, baby,” Louis said, his voice a gentle rumble in Harry’s ear. “You know I would if I could.”

Harry knew that was a silly thing to ask for, it was pure sentiment and wishful thinking, and he wished they lived in a world where Louis could indulge him and say, _sure thing sweetheart I won’t leave you ever again whenever you reach for me I’ll be there you’ll never fall asleep alone again_ , but he knew better. Behind them, New York was loud and colorful and terrifying, banked in dirty snow, and in the streets and in the White House were people who didn’t care whether he and Louis were together or not, who didn’t even care if they were alive. The weak winter sunshine was fading, and Harry’s neck ached from leaning into Louis’ body, but he didn’t have it in him to complain.

Louis was here now, a solid, real warmth against Harry’s body, his fingers gently carding through the hairs at the nape of Harry’s neck, and Harry decided that was enough.

“I can promise I’m never gonna forget you, though,” Louis spoke into the quiet. “Never again.”

Harry exhaled a slow, shaky breath. “I believe you.”


End file.
